The Copper's Beeches
by Garmonbozia
Summary: A retired D.I. gives a recovered addict a job, and a home, and a reason to smile. Then he insists she dye her hair, and disappears three times a day into the woods. This is no simple act of charity. There are much, much nastier things going on in Hampshire. (Modern adaptation of The Adventure Of The Copper Beeches, set 6 months after HLV - rated for mentions of drug use)
1. Chapter 1

With the thumb of his left hand, Sherlock breaks the pigeon's leg back on itself. The bird died of shock or blood loss when its wings were cut off, and therefore feels nothing.

The mutilated pigeon is the fourth offering that's been left on the doorstep. Two sparrows and a wren came before and he paid them no attention. But this morning, when the now familiar cry of horror went up from Mrs Hudson, he decided to look into it. Hence the dissection. Maybe if he finds out something about the bird, he'll find out where it was caught and…

With the right hand and his teeth, he strips the back off another nicotine patch and slaps it to a space at his collarbone.

For just a moment, he stops, and sighs. This is neither an efficient nor an effective use of his time. But this was always going to be a bad day to be bored. Without a more pressing distraction, fifth-year biology is the best he's got.

_My kingdom for a case_, he thinks. It's not exactly a prayer. It's something Mycroft once said to him in sarcasm. He didn't have the usual ease in dismissing and forgetting it. At times like this it comes back to him. It used to come back much more frequently. He knows better these days; he is more careful now about wishing his kingdom away. Today, in particular, he shakes it out of his head.

It's been six months. That's all the time he was promised, after Magnussen. There shouldn't be a kingdom at all anymore.

Sherlock lifts the scalpel.

A sound. Small, barely there, but enough to attract his attention. He listens closely, and it comes again, stronger now. A knock at the front door. Soft. Ready to walk away if no one answers and perfectly willing. This, plus the hesitation of the first noise… Someone who has never been here before, yes, but it lacks the determination that a client would have.

_Interesting_. He knew better than to ask for a case, but surely this is alright? Anyway, he didn't ask. The kingdom stands.

He listens to the familiar shuffling of Mrs Hudson at the door. The usual conversation. Or he assumes it is; the voices seem quieter than usual and he doesn't want to get up and listen at the door. Doesn't want to seem _too_ desperate. He _does_, however, leave the pinned pigeon behind on the board. Goes to the living room, out of the way of that, grateful to strip off the gloves. He brushes the powder off his hands while he waits.

As ever, the landlady's head appears before the rest of her, hanging in the doorway. There are times when he allows himself to find the warmth of familiarity in it. There's just something strange about her smile today, a scandalized eagerness he doesn't understand. It's getting in the way of the only interesting thing to happen in _hours_ and he simply has no time for it. "You've got a visitor, dear," she says, as though she were telling great secrets.

Guessing gender from the weight of the treads on the stairwell, and mimicking her tone, "Well, let her in, won't you?"

The door fully opens. Nervous, folded arms, looking at her feet, a young woman takes the place of the elder. The old analysis starts on the next heartbeat. Her clothes, for instance, are all relatively new, scarcely a month old, but all well-worn already, scrupulously clean. Everything, right down to her shoes, so up until a month ago she was-

She looks up. Analysis stops, because her face is familiar. Round, healthy, twenty-four or –five. Blonde hair braided behind, out of her way. He knows her. Searches for her, out of all the faces, all the memories, trying to pick her from among them. Searching and searching, and he comes up against a locked door. If nothing else, it tells him where he might know her from. There aren't a lot of things he keeps behind locked doors.

"Do you remember me?" she says. Smiles like it's a game. A blush pinkens high on her white cheeks.

He admits, "Dimly."

"Should I fetch up some tea?" comes Mrs Hudson's inevitable interruption. In the same moment that Sherlock says yes, the guest says no.

"Stay for tea," he says, and nods as he waves Mrs Hudson out of the room.

Directing the guest to a seat he sits down himself. Tells her honestly, "I do know you." What follows is, with every passing second, increasingly a lie, "I just can't place it." Perhaps not precisely, but he knows what the place was like. He knows it was dingy and empty, damp and echoing. He knows it was a place without even the energy to ring with despair or anything so poetic. He knows it was dark.

"That's understandable." Her voice is soft, accent thick and south-of-the-river. "I suppose we've all _well_ changed. Anyway, I was only a kid then. Fifteen. All filth and bruises and train-tracks. You stopped them cutting up my face in the back stairs. That was the first time you saved me."

They said she'd stolen from them. Part of him believed she probably deserved everything she got. Most people in those back stairs did. But he stopped them. Can't remember why now. Maybe just wanted the fight. That used to happen, in between scores. He remembers. "I don't think I ever knew your name."

"Then I should introduce myself." Delighting in the formality, she presents her hand. He ought to ignore it. The ridiculous pageant isn't something to be encouraged. He ought to. He takes it and she grins, "Violet Hunter, pleased to meet you."

This is no longer what he would class as 'interesting'. The word he would use now is simply 'odd'. Unfamiliar. Unsure what to say or how to approach her, he falls back on old habits. With a tone of interrogation, "You said the _first_ time I saved you. I don't recall ever crossing paths again."

"No, well… This is sort-of why I wanted to come here. I know it's weird, and you're probably really busy, so I'll be quick about it." Simultaneously, his heart sinks and starts. Sinks because she's not in trouble and there's no case here and he's back where he started. Starts because really, honestly, so long as she tells it in suitably-arresting fashion, Violet Hunter can take as long as she wants to tell him why she's here, honestly. Secretly he hopes the tea comes up and interrupts her.

Naturally he can voice none of this. Sherlock sits back, invites her on with an open hand.

Violet straightens her shoulders. Breathes deeply. Either she's preparing herself to recite epic poetry, or this story is very close, very personal. There may be a little pain.

"Alright, so the second time you saved me was about three, four years ago now. It's hard to know exactly. I was in a bad way. I mean, _really_ bad. Looking back, now, looking at all the people I knew that OD'd, I had… probably six months left? Tops? Are… are you alright? Sorry, I thought you flin-"

"No, it's nothing. Go on."

"Anyway, I got to that point, and I'm sure everybody's had one of them, you know where you look at yourself and you just don't see any way out anymore. I was set on _proper_ self-destruct mode. And I was in a Tube station, keeping warm, and somebody'd left a paper behind. So I'm looking at it, because then it looks like you're waiting and they don't throw you out so quick, and I see this face, that I know on the front page. And it was you. They're talking about you in the papers, like how great, how clever you are, about some really complicated case that no one else was able to crack, except that you did.

"And I thought to myself, well, if _he_ can do it… No offence or anything. And, well, long, long, _still-ongoing_ story cut short, that's how I'm off the skag these days."

Sherlock feels silence try to settle over him. But that's a bad thing. That happened before and John thought he'd lost his mind. That was to do with friendship. This is different. This is a little bit easier to pull back from. He tells her, with honest warmth, "You did that yourself."

Violet nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I did and I'm proud every day that I'm clean. But… But that's how it started and I've always wanted to say thank you."

He finds her composure intriguing. Stunning, in fact, but he's having a hard time admitting that to himself. She's not ashamed. Now that her initial nerves are gone she's warm and self-possessed. Telling him this immensely personal thing doesn't seem to have cost her much at all. "You're welcome," he mutters, only realizing after how it sounds. He corrects himself, "More than welcome," seeing he had no real agency, that her decision was more likely a survival reaction seeking the slightest trigger before that one shot that would push her over the edge. He didn't _do_ anything.

And yet here she is thanking him.

A day that began with a simple dismembered pigeon is taking a turn for the surreal.

But he must be forgetting to speak out loud again, because she goes on cautiously. "Then, and this wasn't so long ago, I lifted up another paper? I'd bought this one myself but… But you were in it again and it wasn't such great news. I felt so awful…"

The word 'why' is on his lips. For the first in a long time, Sherlock forces himself to pause, to actually seek out the sense in the stupid things that people will say, before concluding that there is none. "Why?"

"I don't know. Like it was the balance or something. I got better so you got worse."

"I was undercover."

"Oh, good." There's a pause then. It stops just short of awkward, but she reaches up and plays with one stud earring, keeping herself busy until she suddenly grins. "This is one of the weirdest conversations I've ever had sober." She laughs.

Sherlock is saved from joining in by the arrival of the tea, by the china rattling. By Mrs Hudson's insipid smiling and the need to have her out of the room, swiftly, before they can talk any further. He catches himself, treating her as if she never knew what he came from. But it's too late to do anything about it now. And considering he's been picking up the dead birds when she couldn't bear to, he's owed the courtesy.

When the landlady offered the plate of biscuits, Violet politely put up her hand and declined. Now they're alone again he tells her, "Have one."

"No, honestly, I-"

"You want one, have one."

"I don't want-"

"It was an observation, not a suggestion." She still hesitates. "High blood sugar can take the edge off a small trigger craving."

Reaching for a Jammie Dodger, "How'd you know I was craving?"

"You're holding your arm. The old, familiar spot. Safe to assume there's some scarring there, hence your subconscious association. You mentioned your sobriety explicitly, reminding yourself of what you've worked for. It's not unreasonable to think there's a certain stress for you in coming here. There is also a very slight tremor in your left leg." It stops abruptly with her pushing her foot hard against the floor. "Don't be ashamed. Cravings are nothing to be ashamed of."

"Until you give into them."

"Relapses are nothing unless you let them continue."

"You should run one of them groups." She giggles when he shudders. "No, really. You'd be a good sponsor." He doesn't know how to respond. There are a lot of things he _could_ say. But none of them are right. Nearly all of them would make her leave. Seeing she essentially has nothing to offer him except bad memories, that really should be his first objective. But it doesn't feel right. In his silence she starts to set down the teacup, the remainder of the biscuit. "Look, I know all of this sounds well thick. I do. I've just wanted to come and say thanks so many times. And now I'm leaving London, it was now or never."

"Leaving?"

Proudly swelling, "I've got a job. Not far away. Up the country. Taking care of a house, live-in. You'll never guess whose. I bet you remember D.I. Rucastle, don't you?" He does. Distinctly. With no fondness and a cold, clutching feeling in his chest. With Violet sitting right there, he fights the urge to clench his fists. But she is watching and sees it all. Giggles again, "Yeah, well, he was all chuffed with me. We met in a caf and he recognized me. One thing led to another. He's retired now, so it's alright. I go up next week."

Straining to part his grinding teeth, to voice what he really does feel, "Well done." And when that comes out wrong and insincere, he adds, "You deserve it."

Violet nods, and with the same self-aware pride agrees, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Now she's thinking of leaving. He can see it on her. It's nothing he's done. Put simply, she's completed the task she came here for. More to the point, she feels good. Now she intends to leave before anything can change that, while she's still got this boost. He knows that sensation very well. When you've been low for so long, you'll do anything to protect any scrap of real happiness. She's running before anything can change.

"Wait," he says. Maybe says it before she's realized her hand has gone to the strap of her bag, that her eyes are flickering to his watch and the reflection of the door in the window behind. "Please. Wait one second."

He has to go back to the kitchen to fetch a marker. It was set out by the impromptu post-mortem, in case anything of note arose. He stretches for it from the far end of the table, blocking any view of the wingless pigeon. Then he returns to Violet.

Sherlock takes hold of her left arm, above the wrist. With the marker turned back in his hand, he pushes up her sleeve. There's a place, inside her elbow, which is red and pock-marked, harder and finer than acne-scarring, among bloodless, bluish flesh. Veins learn to protect themselves eventually. They draw away from the surface. Violet recoils, hates having it uncovered. But it's only for a moment. Only for as long as it takes for him to write his mobile number there on the twisted skin. As quick as he can he rolls her sleeve back down again, and steps back when she holds that spot again.

Explaining, almost sheepish, "Just in case."


	2. Chapter 2

After Violet, the lull picked up where it left off. Luckily, she had passed time on that most sensitive of days. By the time she was out of his head it was almost over. But the rest remained. The flat has a sort of echo these days. Sherlock can't remember if it was there before he left or not. He keeps the curtains drawn across the windows when he can, softening the room, but it doesn't do much to help.

The only difference between the silence before Violet Hunter and the silence after is that now, when the boredom is worst and threatens to overwhelm him there is some small mystery to think of. He thinks of why she came here.

On the surface, the reason is obvious. She _told_ him the reason. The reason was the simple act of coming here. But he keeps going back to that first noise. The way she knocked, the noise that barely was, undiscernible even as a knock. He always returns to her hesitation.

From time to time he has replayed the entire encounter in his mind. Really, he wasn't very clever. He let her first admission get to him. Obvious the memories, the stories, everything she brought with her, they were bloody difficult to ignore, but he should have tried harder. Now, when he watches it over again, he maintains some semblance of cool remove. And every time, the recording skips. It sticks on one spot, shuddering, repeating itself, forcing him to listen more carefully.

When she told him about her new job. Taking care of a house, she said. _You'll never guess whose_. There was something on her voice. A little twitter. _You'll never guess whose. _Was she laughing at the both of them, at the twist of fate that had brought her to an old enemy?_ You'll never guess whose_. Or is that nervous laughter? And if it _is_ nervous laughter, then it hadn't been there before. Violet had lost her nerves before she even sat down, and they were gone a moment later, so why, what was it about _You'll never guess whose_? She'd been so calm, so level. From his more sentimental impressions, he recalls that she had a remarkable _stillness_, like deep water.

_You'll never guess whose_.

From the depths of great tedium, and the pocket of his dressing gown, Sherlock fishes out his phone.

"Hello?"

"Lestrade. Not busy are you?" There's a moment's stunned silence on the far end of the line. "No, I'm not just being courteous. By the way, you're staring and your mouth is hanging open." A rustle while the officer corrects himself. "I'd rather speak to you when you have a minute because there's no pressing urgency and I would appreciate it if you would properly think about this."

"It was more me resenting the idea that I _wouldn't_ be busy, Sherlock."

"Are you?"

"…I am having a well-deserved break."

"Forgive me, I'm a bit rusty; is that a sort of sausage roll, or something sweet?"

Another pause. Then, grumbling through a mouthful of one or the other, "What do you want?"

"Do you remember Jethro Rucastle?"

"Remember him? He only retired six months ago, why wouldn't I- Wait. Don't _you_ remember him?"

"I'm looking for an unbiased opinion. Actually, no – I'm looking to have a biased one confirmed first. Did he ever talk about-" He's been lying here too long; his throat is dry and sticks. "-About addicts?" he croaks eventually.

"After the job he got stuck with? Yeah. Yeah, he talked about them. And yeah, thinking of you and your biased opinion, you're actually probably right on that one."

"He hates them."

Lestrade's definite, affirming nod is almost audible. "With a passion." And as Sherlock recalls, with just a touch of concern, he never had much belief in rehabilitation.

"Tell me about him."

"Um… _yeah_," begins the thoughtless answer. Sherlock shuts his eyes, ready to ride this part out and wait for the actual information. "He was an alright bloke. Grumpy old codger, but then they all are, forty years in the job. Can't blame him for that. Tell you what, he was a laugh at parties. Can't half drink, I'll tell you that."

No. No, he can't ride this out, it's crushing. Sherlock will have to walk Lestrade through this one. "Family?"

He learns, by careful mining of truth from uncertainty and uselessness and the _endless_ um-ing and ah-ing, that Rucastle is a widower. His daughter, Alice, is somewhere in her twenties and Lestrade believes she still lives at home. He doesn't think she's ever had a job either. Seems to think that's important, but Sherlock balances it against a general undercurrent of working-class outrage and dismisses it.

"He's kind to her, then? He must be, if she's still at home."

"…'_Kind_'? Sherlock, are you sure you're feeling alright?" It is on his lips to plead. To say something that will make Lestrade understand, this is important. But then again, he doesn't know whether it is or not. It is on his lips to just beg the question answered, but ultimately he says nothing. He hesitates and Lestrade sighs, "He never used to shut up about his Alice. 'My Alice this' and 'my Alice that'. More than kind, alright?"

Yes. Alright.

"And it was Berkshire he moved to, wasn't it?" Honestly, Sherlock has no idea. Violet never mentioned anything to that effect.

But very quickly, without a speck of suspicion, Lestrade corrects him, "Hampshire. Nice place, actually. Big old house with a bit of woodland. The Copper's Beeches, he called it. Thought he was dead clever for that one." In the moment it takes Sherlock to process that information, Lestrade realizes what he's just done. Says, in a tone of restrained concern, "You're not thinking of going visiting, are you?"

No. Really, he's not the sort to 'go visiting'. But should a situation arise that he has to go and investigate, at least now he knows where he's going

He tries to reassure Lestrade, but is interrupted. "I mean, really, he didn't do anything to you he wasn't supposed to, if that's what you're-"

"It's not. It's got nothing to do with me. If I never see Rucastle again it'll be too soon."

"Then what _is_ it about?"

Sherlock should tell him. Lestrade might know something more about Violet. He'd have her arrest record, certainly. There'd be a story there, a telling outline of the events of her life. Picked up for trespassing, squatting, possession, theft, shoplifting. Then, of course, all the nights she was just picked up and released again. But really, what will that give him? Sherlock knows that story, and far too well. But there might some mention of her parents, of where she came from and… And it's prying. He hangs up instead.

_You'll never guess whose_. She was laughing at them both. Must have been. Two rescued strays, and her about to go and work for the man who would have had them put down years ago. He told them as much, in as many words. On those same back stairs where Violet nearly had a razor run from eye to chin on either side.

These are memories he had thought long since deleted. It seems they were burned in deeper than he knew.

She was laughing. That's all. She had the smile of a Hindu statue; maybe philosophy has something to do with it. Maybe if Sherlock had some capacity to forgive – or more accurately the desire to use it – he would have been able to laugh too.

[Kerlyssa – James said I could come do this one. It's recon, as long as I take my time and do character work and don't let anyone off too lightly. (As if I'd do a silly thing like that!)]


	3. Chapter 3

"Hello?" The voice comes echoing up the stairs. Sherlock rolls his eyes. Two weeks of boredom, of nothing except two ravens and a magpie (of which the mutilator seemed especially proud; it had been displayed and wreathed with ragged flowers). Now that he's finally got something to do, here comes the distraction that would have been more than welcome on any one of those days. It is enough, almost, that one might want to believe in that stupid notion that stupid people call Sod's Law. "Sherlock?"

He's far too busy to go out and greet. "In here." The bedroom door opens. Without removing his head from the wardrobe, "Morning, Mary."

"I should start trying to sneak up on you again. I'm sure I could manage it."

"You did manage it. That's why you stopped."

"I stopped because I was pregnant. Now if panicked and stabbed me with a needle full of butrachatoxin, I'm in a better position to survive it."

Not the toxin he was working with that day, the one she all but broke his wrist holding off. She wouldn't stand a chance. That's why he had it in the flat, to _prove_ that no one was coming out the other side of it. Even if the rumours he's heard about advanced chemical tolerance training in certain US government black-helicopter operations are true, she wouldn't have survived, and he just _cannot_ put his hands on that dark jumper he's going to need, which is here somewhere, but-

He hears the wry smile on Mary's face, "Bad time?"

"Quite the opposite." Momentarily he stops packing his case and stands back. "Is something the matter?"

A slight wince, like a headache or a light in her eyes. A tension in the shoulders. An absolute relaxation in the expression of her mouth which is unreadable, but it has been _forced_ to be unreadable, and that in itself tells him everything. "No," she says nevertheless. "We were out shopping and we thought we'd stop in and see you."

"We? But John isn't with you." No footsteps, no aftershave smell, no- "Ah. The littlest Watson. I don't see her."

Determinedly relaxed, but examining the room with the precision afforded to crime scenes by forensic teams, she moves to sit on the end of his bed. "Your landlady's got her. Seems quite content to keep her too. Can I borrow some ransom money?"

"Can't your husband keep you in the manner to which you are accustomed?"

He looks back to the wardrobe, spotting the jumper on the top shelf and grabbing it down. Mary, for her part, leans forward enough to see around the door, and sees the open suitcase.

"At the risk of boring you, it's so very obvious… going somewhere?"

Ignoring the question about John.

"What's he done?"

Mary doesn't stammer. She doesn't pretend she doesn't know what he's talking about. She doesn't hesitate. "Sherlock, he's driving me mad. Answer me, though; where are you going?"

"Hampshire. Mad in what way?"

"All the _attention_. It's _constant_. What's best for new mum, what's best for baby, it's _all the bloody time_ – What's in Hampshire?"

"Case. You're annoyed at him because he cares about you?"

"I can't breathe. Did you know that? Apparently the way I've been doing it for the last… _number_ of years has been wrong. The sort of case you might need help with?"

"The sort of case I have entirely under control. Just go home and tell him you want space."

"I can't say I need _space_, that means I'm _leaving_ him." In the act of zipping his case, Sherlock stops. "It's one of those nasty social things, dear. But I would _like_ a bit of space, the way you mean it."

"I'm not taking him with me."

She stands, suddenly groaning, "Oh, go on! Just for the weekend."

"No." He's firm on that. This is a case he had suspected might come up. He made the decision days ago, he will have no one along with him. He values John's assistance, his expertise, his company above anything else. But he's not coming this time. It was less than a decision, actually. It was a fact that he knew as simply as that the water in the tap is safe to drink. Inherent, understood, John is not coming. He didn't mind giving Mary his destination. If something happens to him, if he is prevented from returning, she'll mention Hampshire, which will ring bells with Lestrade, and he'll have a chance at help. He has seeded that clue with her. But that's all she gets.

She has moved. He wasn't entirely aware of this. When he turns away from the wardrobe she is leaning in the window, directly behind him, looking him dead in the eye. "Does your brother know where you're off to?"

He stares. "You wouldn't."

"Last night, when I could happily have been falling asleep unaided, I was getting a lecture on the best way for me to sleep. Bloody _try_ me, Sherlock."

Mycroft will stop him going. Or if he can't stop him he'll issue so many warnings and to all the wrong people that his going at all will be rendered pointless. "You do know," he explains to Mary, "that your selfishness could prevent a young woman, possibly in grave danger, from getting the help she needs."

"If I have to drink one more macrobiotic smoothie, _John_ is going to be in grave danger. It's really easy. You boys go and have your away day, and us girls will stay home and have a nice bottle and a gin and tonic."

"That had better be the right way round."

"Depends whether or not she'll sleep, I suppose," she says with a shrug.

Sherlock sighs. "You'd better call ahead and have him pack a bag."

"You do it. Tell him you need him. Otherwise it just looks like I'm trying to get rid of him." He seethes. Crushes it down and reaches for his coat. Mary is the one who stops to lock the door.

He waits in the hall. Mrs Hudson comes out of the living room, holding baby Harriet to her shoulder. With a tiny mock gasp, "Oh, look! Who's grumpy? Who's grumpy, little one? It's Uncle Sherlock, isn't it? Yes, it is, it's Uncle Sherlock."

He is waiting with his hand already on the door, foot tapping. But Mary is taking her time coming downstairs. He cuts his eyes momentarily over at the little pink bundle. Mumbles, "Hello, Harriet." There is, for whatever unfathomable reason, a squeal of delight and a tiny giggle.

Finally, Mary joins them. She does not, however, start to put the pram back up, or put on her jacket. She is obliviously tickling her daughter when she feels his eyes on her and stops. "Oh, you can go on ahead. We're going to stop and visit for a while, aren't we, sweetheart?"

He grabs hold of his case, and the door, and leaves. The second he's got a free hand he pulls out his phone and finds the familiar number.

"Hello?"

"Mary says you have to pack a bag."

In instant and all-consuming panic, "_What_? Is… Is she there, can I speak to her?"

"She and Harriet at staying with Mrs Hudson."

"Sherlock, let me talk to her. What exactly did she say? Everything was fine this morning and-"

Oh God, this is really very petty…

Sherlock is starting to feel better. "Can you meet me at Victoria or should I get a cab round to yours?"

A little less panic, a hard edge, starting to suspect; "…Why would I meet you at Victoria?"

"Got a case on. Mary thought you might want to come along." A dead, raging silence follows on. Sherlock allows it to last for the count of three, and tries not to smile saying, "Why? What did you think I was talking about?"

John mutters, grudgingly, "What time's the train?"

"Did Mary put you up to that?" That was the first question John asked him, there on the platform. Then, without waiting for an answer, "It's the sort of thing she'd do, lately. She's just _determined_ not to take anything seriously. It's driving me up the wall." They are, now, a half-hour outside London, and John has only _just_ begun to run out of steam. It's been quite interesting, actually. Well, as far as incredibly dull, one-sided conversations can be. Every few minutes Sherlock will draw out of his own thoughts to pick up some _scintillating_ little fact (Mary, for instance, isn't taking good enough care of her teeth these days), and compare it to Mary's earlier complaints.

He has concluded that neither of them is doing anything wrong or even different. They've simply reached a point where they are noticing small annoyances, aggravated by the new stress of parenthood.

It has not, however, crossed his mind to perhaps try and explain that, to either party. Even if it had, he would have concluded that it was pointless to point out a joint fault to warring sides, would only have caused an exchange of blame and further bickering, and put the idea out of his head again. He only marvels at the endless ingenuity of the human race in _making things complicated_, and at being unable to _see_ what they are doing in this.

It's about time to tune in to John's ranting again. He takes a deep breath and allows the drone to take the form of words again. "-You're not even listening anymore, are you?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Lost you entirely about twenty minutes ago."

"Thanks. Nice to know I can talk to you."

"Do you love her?"

"Yes, of course."

"Are you leaving her?"

"_No_."

"Then shut up." John slumps back in his seat, glaring like a teenager. This is the beginning of a thought process Sherlock has watched him go through before. First is the disbelief; how dare he shut off? These, he thinks, are the problems of his _life_. They deserve to be taken seriously, he thinks. He then moves on to thinking, _oh well, this is Sherlock_ _I'm dealing with_. This is Sherlock, who knows nothing about relationships. What else should he have expected?

Personally, Sherlock's not entirely sure any of that is true. He lets it go on only because it allows John to move to the third and final act of this familiar show. At long last (though with a put-upon roll of the eyes that Sherlock could do without), John says, and it is _such an effort_ for him to say, "Go on, then. What's this case?"

"Violet Hunter. Just recently took a new job and her employer's been making some… _unusual_ requests. She's afraid."

"Wait, so… So nobody's dead?"

"Well, hope springs eternal."


	4. Chapter 4

There is no train station in the village itself. Walking from the nearest platform, more than an hour, John and Sherlock see Bishop's Breach get slowly nearer. The flatness of the fields, the stillness of the day, everything has a lack of perspective, and at times it seems almost as though the buildings are coming closer to them, and not the other way around, encroaching like animals, or a rainstorm. Every house, every shop, the little church, they're made a peculiar, blue grey stone, local to this place. The gravel of it scatters the path they approach on, shored up against the sparse, scattered trees, as though this whole world were carved down from one solid piece. In the afternoon sun it has a misty glow.

"Worse things," John murmurs, "than getting offered a job out here."

"You should see it in the rain…"

"You've been here before?"

"No. But think about it." Think of the stone drenched, streaked navy down below the eves, two-tone glaring dark, midnight at midmorning. Think of the sky so low it blends with this featureless land. Think of winter here, and when the path is deep in snow there is no way out of this small, odd place.

John thinks, and not for very long at all. He finds all of these images and reaches past them to the next natural conclusion, "This is going to be a village full of weirdoes, isn't it?"

"Very much so."

"So tell me more about this case."

Sherlock shrugs. Shoves his free hand into his pocket. "Didn't I already tell you?"

"_No_. You said 'unusual requests'. Which is hinting, not telling. What sort of requests?"

"…Find out soon enough, won't we?"

In fairness, John seems relatively acceptant of this. He's willing to allow that there are things Sherlock doesn't always know, and doesn't know right away. He's willing to come along and learn all at once, make his own decisions. Honestly, Sherlock is grateful. But as it turns out, John's not acceptant at all. Just a bit slower than usual. Must be the baby, keeping him up at night. After just enough of a delay to have gotten Sherlock's hopes up, "Wait. You mean we've come all the way out here and you don't actually know _anything _about this case?"

"Well, you weren't supposed to be here. If your wife didn't have such impeccably awful timing, and you'd made a few less macrobiotic smoothies and a few more passes-"

"_Sherlock_!"

"-Oh, it was _obvious_. My point is, you brought this on yourself."

"You're avoiding the question."

"I'm not."

"Answer it then. If you don't know anything about what's going on out here, why are you even out of the flat? You must know _something_."

Violet Hunter called him at ten o'clock this morning. She told him, in a hushed, hurried voice, that she finally understood why he'd chosen that spot on her arm to write his number. She was calling because exactly what he had thought might happen had happened. A few broken, muttered phrases about the job, the job was weird, the job was a mistake, but he stopped her.

Sherlock told her he'd be in the village by this afternoon, and would call her when he arrived. That was all that was said.

"Tell me something, Sherlock. It's boring if there's _nothing_ to go on." How terribly sorry Sherlock is that he can't keep John suitably amused. After all, wasn't his brief just to get him out of London, out of the house, for a couple of days? Or was it something about a girl? In trouble, maybe? That seems so long ago now, he's not really sure anymore. "That's just silence, that doesn't even count as avoiding the question anymore."

If he'd stop talking, they'd be in town by now. Sherlock fixes his eyes on the nearest, blue-stone garden wall and keeps toward it.

John, however, is not to be deterred. "Afraid. You said she was afraid. It's the client, isn't it? That's why we're here; you know the client."

"…Not well. And before you ask, no one. She's no one. I've met her twice." He will not give details of the circumstances. And though it will inevitably be the next question, he will not answer why, then, she means anything to him, if she's no one and they've only met twice.

"If she's no one," John begins. Sherlock won't say he told you so. "And you've only met her twice, then…" But he stops. Sherlock had already begun to roll his eyes. It's awkward to stop mid-movement and they loll strangely to John. He shrugs. "Never mind. You don't want to tell me, that's fine. I'm sure I'll _find out soon enough_, won't I?"

With any luck, no. With any luck, he'll be so busy watching, gauging, trying to decide, that he'll never have a clue. But for now, Sherlock is happy enough to take the new quiet, however smug it might be.

The village has drawn up close enough that he pulls out his phone, redialling the number from this morning. Ideally Violet will come and meet them somewhere in town, somewhere public, where she can feel safe. Then she can explain, John can stop asking questions and everything proceeds the way a case really ought to. Everything gets back on track.

Or it would do, if only she would answer. He is redirected immediately to voicemail. "Violet, call back."

He hangs up and John asks, "Something wrong?"

Maybe. Maybe nothing to worry about at all. After all, he doesn't even know the nature of her work. It might be delicate, and require concentration, or silence. But the options for work like that in a place like this seem limited compared to what could be wrong. "We should find somewhere to stay. If she doesn't get in touch we'll just have to go up there." Saying this, he lifts his eyes to the far side fo the village, where the flat land finally lifts. There, the hillside is wooded, ruddy with dark, distinctive foliage. Amongst it all, another flash of blue stone. The house is tall, curiously staggered against the hill, two chimneys stretching above the trees. "The Copper's Beeches," Sherlock explains. These facts he shares now are inconsequential, but John doesn't know that. He drinks information like a teenager drinks alcohol; indiscriminate and sickened with it. "Retirement home of D.I. Jethro Rucastle, his daughter Alice, and his new live-in employee, Violet Hunter. She's been here less than a week and already felt the need to send up a flare."

"Do you know anything about this officer?"

"…Lestrade hadn't a bad word to say."

The path beneath their feet turns abruptly to tarmac at the edge of town. It ought to be like stepping out of the wilds, into civilization. But the kerbstones are that same peculiar blue and run like veins along every street.

Sherlock tells himself there is no point in trying again to call Violet. It's only after he's thought those words that he realizes they should have been a foregone conclusion. They shouldn't even have crossed his mind. After that, he unwraps his hand from around his phone, removes it from his pocket. "Look," he says, and points. "Pub. If there are rooms anywhere, that's it."

"You didn't check if there was anywhere to stay?"

"Don't make me tell you again, you're not supposed to be here. There's a chance it'll sink in and then you'll sulk."

For the record, rooms are easily gotten. The heavy, elderly lady behind the bar is more than happy to have them, seems grateful for the business. He asks if she's seen someone new in town, a girl with long blonde hair. She shakes her head, no one matching the description. Sherlock doesn't' let that bother him, though; Violet could be avoiding alcohol. After all, she's supposed to. Supposed to avoid anything that might weaken her resolve against stronger, more dangerous desires. So's he, though it hasn't always stopped him.

No, he doesn't let it bother him. He keeps it out of mind entirely by deliberately bothering John about the ease of finding accommodation. It all works out whenever people just stop complaining and judging. The only downside is, there's nothing else to do. With the bags deposited, there's only waiting. The only minor mystery of the ensuing time is that John lingers for almost an hour after one gradually warming pint. In the end, under Sherlock's puzzled gaze, he looks up, "I'm not allowed to drink with you anymore. 'Cause of the stag."

"Ah. Well, at least Mary's getting to you too."

"No, Mrs Hudson was the one who said that." Sherlock almost laughs, before he realizes John isn't laughing. "Are you going to try calling the client again?"

"No point," Sherlock confirms, with himself as much as anything. "She'll get the message or she won't."

"Then will you stop?"

John nods down. Sherlock sees a hand turning a phone from corner to corner against the table. Slowly, he starts to hear the little clicks it makes with every connection. Finally he recognizes the hand as his and puts the phone back into the pocket he doesn't remember taking it out of.

Almost predictably, it is at exactly at that moment that it rings, and he snatches it back out again. "Hello?"

"Sherlock." Violet. Quiet again, speaking quickly. "I got your message. Sorry."

"Where were you?"

"In the house but… There's only certain times of day I can borrow my phone back." He wants to question that, but she doesn't give him time. "Look, he won't be gone long, so I have to be quick. I can't come down to the village this evening, there's no way. I could probably do it in the morning. He drives to the city on a Saturday, for the football. That would give us time. It can't be today. I'm really sorry."

"Is tomorrow time enough?" he asks her. A one-word answer will change everything. All she has to do is say no. He'll help. He swore as much when he gave her his number and he's not entirely sure she understands that. One word, and he'll do everything in his power.

Sherlock is relieved, yes, oh and not at all put out, when Violet breezes, "Oh, _yeah_, yeah. I don't think I'm in any danger, myself…"


	5. Chapter 5

A little before four the following morning, a soft, insistent knocking at the door pulls John out of his bed. Sherlock hears him coming, slowly at first, quick once he realizes there must be a problem. There's a tug, the tiniest tug, that might be guilt. It passes fast. Between the work his mind is doing already, the pain, and trying not to wake the landlady, he's fully occupied. The door opens, the light from inside revealing him cradling one damaged arm with the other, and the pub's stolen first aid kit tucked in under his elbow. He hurries inside and closes the door on the glow.

John is staring. "If I told you not to ask-"

"Wouldn't wash." But there are no _immediate_ questions. John lets him sit down first, takes the green box from him while Sherlock rolls up his bloodied, ruined sleeve. His forearm is torn in a half-moon on either side, bruised around the wounds. There are other little cuts and scrapes, mostly on his back, his ankles. Sherlock hasn't even felt those yet. He has _barely_ felt the beginnings of what's been done to his arm.

He sits in respectful silence while John clears away the worst of the blood, looking carefully at the little loop of punctures. "That's a bite."

Sherlock nods, just starting to grimace. "Turns out the enormous hound is _real_ this time. On the plus side-" He stops, wincing, as the first touch of antiseptic buzzes against raw flesh. "-On the plus side, we haven't had a wasted journey."

"You went to the house?" Part-disbelieving, part-scolding. Sherlock doesn't know why he bothers with either. It was not a ridiculous thing to do and so far as he can see John has no just cause to be angry that he did it.

Yes, he went to the house. He began a preliminary investigation based on the facts available to him – the first, needful phone call, the delay when he tried to get hold of Violet again, the hints she gave. It was a perfectly natural move. He has been asked here in the capacity of a detective and that's what he did.

John sighs wearily over the dressing. "So? Enlighten me."

"Well, Rucastle's definitely hiding something."

"What tells you that?"

"The approximately-two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of mastiff wandering the grounds."

"So he's got a guard dog. So do a lot of people. Especially this far out. I'd imagine some coppers _dream_ about having a vicious mutt to do the work, after years of having to worry about brutality cases. Have you ever heard Lestrade about the canine un-?"

For the record, John continues to speak. It is nothing of note and with the wound now hot and full of vicious antibacterial heat, Sherlock chooses not to note it.

There is no sign on the wrought iron gate. There's no legal obligation, but really there ought to be one. There is no 'Beware Of The Dog' notice. Therefore, when he climbed over, with the torch of his phone deadened pinkish through his fingers, there was no reason to suspect.

There was, however, a light on in an upstairs room. Three-thirty in the morning, and a light on. Neither was it simply that someone had fallen asleep before switching it off; he could see someone up there, moving in silhouette. He saw long arms, hands working a hairbrush, and thought from their fineness and the certain turns in the manner, that it was Violet. But the shadow had short hair. His first glimpse, perhaps, of Alice Rucastle.

What was she getting ready for at that time of night?

Sherlock was moving toward that, toward the strangeness of activity, and only slowly became aware of the padding paws, the low, creeping creature that was just a shadow on the dark. He knew it was there, but with only the glow from inside his palm, nothing picked it out. Only when it suddenly growled did he realize how close it was. The great mouth yawned lazily open and the bleach-white teeth, the gleam of saliva, was the first thing he had to focus on. He made them his guide, trying to find the eyes. Stare the thing down. That was the advice he remembered.

In retrospect, it's time he might have spent running. Certainly the animal used his hesitation to close the gap between them. By the time he abandoned old advice and turned to run, it was too late.

The dog leapt. The difference between his exposed jugular and survival was fractional. The jaws clamped on his arm with the weight of a car, and took him to the ground just as quickly. The arm was dragged over his head, wrenched from side to side like the thing wanted it off.

He let go of his phone.

It fell to the grass and bounced onto its front, uncovering the torch. With his uninjured arm, Sherlock could protect his eyes, but the brute couldn't. The flash of white blinded its night vision and it released him, fell away whimpering for just a moment, just long enough that Sherlock could roll to his feet and take off.

The mastiff was close behind him. It took another flash of the torch to buy time, climbing one-armed over the fence, and-

Sherlock hisses; cotton dressing caught in the ragged edge of a puncture. Murmuring, distracted, John says, "Sorry."

"No. What were you saying before?"

"Only that a lot of people have dogs. He's not necessarily hiding anything."

Sherlock shakes his head. That last flash, it picked out something surprising. Despite the frankly disturbing size of the animal, the weight that flung him effortlessly to the ground and might well have had his limb, left to its own devices, the light caught in shaded steps on its underside as it leapt snarling at the gate. Ribs. "He keeps it starved. And it's not negligence, it's not cruelty. He wants it to kill." John smooths down the dressing tape while Sherlock watches. "Thank you."

"No problem. Now tell me why you went there."

"I don't understand what you're asking." The question itself looks deceptively simple. But somehow he gets the feeling that John's expecting more of an answer than that he went to get ahead, to get _some_ idea of what they might be dealing with. Violet said she didn't think she was in any trouble. But her tone made it very clear that _someone_ is. What was Alice getting ready for at half-three in the morning?

He hasn't breathed a word of this to John. If he had, John might have suggested Rucastle himself. It would have been a surprise, and not a pleasant one. He hasn't considered the possibility. It will not naturally occur to him.

If he could only lead John to those questions, John might ask him why not.

The answer, if he couldn't help but give one, would explain everything.

"You could've told me. Might have gone a lot easier with someone else keeping an eye out."

"I was trying not to draw attention to myself."

"Oh, thank you very much."

"I only mean that of the two of us you're the one who still travels with his army-issue weapon. A dead dog is much harder to explain than one with a bloody muzzle."

"Let me take that stone out of your ankle." With dull, distant obedience, Sherlock gives up his foot, before he realizes quite what he's doing. Now that John has it, he can't go anywhere. He expects more questioning. Probably the same questions over and over again, because there aren't really any new ways left to phrase it. Sherlock shuts his eyes against another sting, having a piece of gravel tweezed away. Somewhere in the midst of this, he begins to speak.

"Jethro Rucastle had a long and illustrious career, culminating in a stint with the Flying Squad. He was doing well for himself there, too. Got a few tips, a few lucky breaks, and came bloody close to destroying one of the biggest ram-raiding outfits in the country. And the Flying Squad got them… Eventually. About five years later and without the aid of Jethro Rucastle, who was blamed for letting them get away. So, despite all those years of excellent service and great results, he was shunted down to a job that no one else wanted. He was in charge of the team that had the pointless, cyclical, Sisyphusian task of clearing the addicts out of doss-houses, day after day. Violet Hunter was one of them. And-"

_And I was another_. That's how he meant to finish that.

The rest of the damage is just scrapes and scratches. He takes back his foot, mutters another perfunctory thank you, leaves the room.


	6. Chapter 6

Saturday morning comes. With his coat sleeve covering the dressings, Sherlock would be quite content never to mention the bite again. But as he steps out of their lodgings, he finds John already there in the yard. He's on the phone again. Third time, so far, and that's just the ones Sherlock was about for. He feels just a _touch_ of sympathy for Mary Morstan. After Adler drugged him, he suffered the same petty, fussy little attentions for days, and she's had _months_ of it. Don't ask him exactly how many months. Certainly few enough that the proud parents still give Harriet's age in _weeks_, hence the confusion.

But then again, she wanted him to take John out of the city. Nothing else was mentioned. Sherlock doesn't interrupt.

John's voice has that bored, note-taking tone. Like any other doctor, or any other spouse. Just checking off a list of things – how's Harriet, has Mary taken her supplements, did Harriet sleep, what about the kid next door that keeps banging his desk chair against the wall – just running through it. Whatever happens, whatever she says, Mary must snap at him. Sherlock can't honestly say he'd blame her. "Well, I'm _sorry_," is the utterly unapologetic response she gets, "But I can't forget I'm taking care of you just because I'm taking care of-" Sherlock stiffens. The sentence never gets finished. That doesn't mean he doesn't know how it ended. "What do you mean, _you're_ not the one who needs-?"

This time Sherlock clears his throat. It's worth it just to watch what John is saying crumble, the words falling out of their recognizable shape. _He's right there, isn't he?_, is what he imagines Mary saying. "Yeah, yeah," John replies. _Right then. Bye, love._ "Yeah. Yeah, talk later."

Considering how recently John patched him up, Sherlock lets it go. Breezes past so that John can fall into step. "How are they then, your ladies?"

"Apparently totally fine without me."

"How dare they cope…"

"It's not about them _coping_, Sherlock, I know Mary can _cope_, it's-"

"It's about you coming to terms with the fact that Mary can cope."

John shakes his head, grumbles a few things Sherlock doesn't catch and doesn't think he's missing anything. He's used to people not wanting to hear the truth. John is only special in that Sherlock has resigned himself to this denseness, and has deigned to give John time to reach his conclusions alone. It is, however, rather difficult to take his tone when he murmurs, "So did you speak to the client? Or has someone got her phone again?" He _seems_ to be implying that they're moving on to a subject that Sherlock can understand. He _comes across_ as though he is placating a petulant teenager.

"Violet sent me a message," he mutters, through deliberately deep breaths. "There's a caf on the other street, she says she can meet us this morning."

"That's good of her."

"The next train's at eleven," Sherlock says, placid as a saint. "I'm sure if you start walking now you'll get there in good time."

They walk on a while before anyone condescends to say anything. Even then, it's perfunctory, and very much the sort of question John is used to asking, "And how's the arm feeling this morning, then?"

It pulses. That's the only way Sherlock would describe it. It throbs under the dressings, hard enough to stretch the tape and tug at the hairs on his arms. It is as hot and hard as though some enormous hand were clamped tight around it.

"It's fine."

"Well, if it gives you any trouble-"

"I don't think it was all that deep, really."

The wonderful thing about villages small enough that you can say a think like 'the other street' is that it never takes long to get anywhere. Sherlock turns into the café and considers the subject closed. Of five tables, only two are occupied. One is crowded with what look like local farmers, with most of a day's work behind them already, boots caked in stinking filth. John reels, going off the idea of breakfast. Sherlock feels his head spin too, just does a better job of covering it up.

Alone in the corner, a young woman, possibly a student, with short hair in a most peculiar shade of electric blue, hunched over a book. That's good to know. If Violet stays here, if everything resolves and she keeps the job she was so proud of getting, at least she won't be alone in the village.

They sit by the window. Sherlock is even prepared to give up a few more basic facts, so they can discuss the case before anything else. But the pot-bellied man behind the counter shouts across, asking what they want. Apparently this isn't the sort of place with table service. One glance at John finds him still sickly staring down at the gathering of manure-encased wellingtons under the other table. Sherlock calls over, "Two black coffees."

The blue-haired woman lifts her head abruptly, looking left and right before she sees them over her shoulder. "Sherlock?"

Violet. As soon as he sees her face, it couldn't be anyone else. In the moment he wastes with confusion, she has gathered her book and her breakfast and dragged her chair across to them. "I didn't recognize you," he tells her.

"Oh, yeah. The hair. It's… it's a bit extreme, I know." More than that. Nugatory physical changes don't often register with him. If you lose a suspect during a chase just because they've removed their wig or thrown off their coat, you are, in effect, useless. But everything is different. Where she was sitting, in the corner, she had her back to the door. Closed, afraid, and more than that cowardly; not wanting to see, even if something was coming for her. Hunched over, head below her shoulders. Where was all her fresh, recovered pride? Even now, at rest, she holds herself small, elbows tucked in. She touches the new, unfamiliar fall of her hair, putting it obsessively back, over and over, behind one ear. It does not want to stay there, but gives her fidgeting fingers something to do.

John clears his throat and Sherlock remembers himself. "John, Violet Hunter. Violet, my associate John Watson."

"Yeah" she smiles. "I read. I'm… I'm glad you're okay." The words are out, and her face starts to fall. One hand to her brow, as if she gives herself a headache, "I'm sorry, that was a really stupid thing to say, I just meant, it always seems like you have these really close escapes… no, it's 'close _shave_', isn't it, that's the phrase. And you'd say something like '_lucky_ escapes', wouldn't you? Sorry. Ignore me. I'm shutting up."

If there had been any doubt, there isn't anymore. Something is happening at that house. It's changing her already.

"It's good to meet you," is all John has to say.

There's a hardness on it too. There's something careful in the way he looks at her. Sherlock resents it. He resents watching Violet curl that little bit farther into herself.

For once in his life, croaking at the unfamiliar words, "How are you, Violet?"

"I'm alright," she answers quickly. "I probably shouldn't stay long, though. I'm supposed to stay at the house this morning."

"Something to do? Some task he's given you?"

"No. No, he just told me I'm supposed to stay in. Mr Rucastle, this is. I told you, or did I? Did I tell you? He goes back to the city for the football on a Saturday, and-"

"Then you've got hours," Sherlock tells her, mostly just to interrupt the stream. "Please don't worry. Why did you cut your hair?"

"He told me to do that too. And to colour it. And to colour it again, because I suppose I must have made a hash of it the first time or it wasn't blue enough or it was patchy or… whatever. To do it twice."

"Why?"

"Well, I _asked_ him that. He said-" She stops. Looks down at her hands, folded in her lap. "He said it was the same as other jobs having a uniform. I just did it."

"What else, Violet? Tell me everything."

"He keeps my phone. Then there's when I can and can't go out. I'm supposed to sleep in the daytime and stay up at night, which is really hard getting used to. There's certain things I'm supposed to do during the night, always at the window, always with the light on, and the thin curtain down. And then there's the _dog_… I don't even like dogs. It's mad; he has to keep it on a chain all day and it just loses it."

"Oh," John interrupts tersely, "he is _acquainted_ with the dog, Miss Hunter."

Sherlock glares, but Violet doesn't notice. She's wide-eyed, scared. "That was you? On the lawn, last night? Because you need to hide it, he's on the warpath. He mutters to himself, see? Almost all the time. I'm not supposed to hear him but you couldn't miss it. And all last night, all this morning, he was pacing up and down the landings, about how he wished he'd got you himself, about how if he finds out who it was… Be really careful, Sherlock."

"Then you're afraid of him."

Violet stops. For the first time today, she rolls back her shoulders, lifts her head. Finally, some of her former composure shows in her expression. She's calm, thoughtful. She thinks of the words, stringing them together before they leave her. Sherlock was prepared for everything but the gentle relief, like a wave over pebbles, of simply seeing her as he remembers.

"I'm not afraid. For the simple reason that, with me, he's _so_ kind. Really, he can't do enough. I know what he's asking is weird, I'm not pretending otherwise. But it's not cruel, and it's not much. He talks to me for hours, and he makes me laugh. I feel so awful even suspecting him, I fought off calling you for ages. I did hear him once muttering something about fucking junkies or junkie scum or something… But as soon as he realized I was there, he stopped. He apologized. Said that didn't mean me anymore."

Though he has _no_ idea why, Sherlock keeps looking over at John. There's a yearning sensation, waiting for something. Now, when he sees a flicker of sympathy in those eyes, he finds out what he was waiting for.

"It's all so strange," Violet is murmuring. "Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm a horrible bitch to have even brought you here, but-" John glances up.

Caught looking, Sherlock snaps immediately into his next question. "What about Alice?"

Blank and startled, Violet answers, "Who?"

* * *

[A/N – I realize this is very different from a lot of my other work. (Not a creative threat or Irish accent in sight, oh my!) I'm sorry to any long-term readers who are put off/WTF about it. I'm testing out some tricks for my real world writing. That, plus the fact that I've only ever rarely written a traditional investigation story, and here we are. Apologies, and much love – S.]


	7. Chapter 7

They walk back with Violet to the house. In the vaguest sort of way, Sherlock wishes John would just go back to the pub, leave them to it. Normally nothing would stop him telling him so. Something about _today_ makes him hold his tongue. He settles at an expression of mild shame, not unlike Violet's. At least he doesn't hold himself when he walks the way she does, as though there were more than a warm summer breeze cutting through her jacket.

The gate at the bottom of the driveway isn't tall, but is nonetheless chained and padlocked. While Violet opens it with a borrowed key, filling a gap in conversation – "You get to go through this time," John says, "rather than over."

Is that a joke? It can be rather hard to tell. Certainly he's smiling, looking pretty bloody pleased with himself.

Sherlock doesn't answer. Violet pretends not to have heard, and when she walks on again, Sherlock falls into step with her. "Do you remember Ruby?" she asks. The question breaks from her. It's preyed on her mind and here at the end of their walk it's now or never. "Ginger Ruby. Her dad was a big…" 'Dealer'. The word is 'dealer'. Instead, she casts a wary glance at John.

"Yes, I remember."

"Ruby's dead. I felt like I should tell you. She used to talk about you all the time."

Determinedly lifting his voice, open, inclusive, "Overdose?"

"Nah. She was high as a kite and thought she could walk along the rail down at the river. You know, just there where the south bank is dead South Bank? She hit her head before she hit the water, never came back up. I was there. Anyway, I just felt like I should tell you."

He nods. For whatever reason, says, "Thank you."

"Listen, I'm going to have to slip back in the back door. I don't have the key for the front. Carlo's back there so-" His brow had furrowed, "-The dog. It's named after a football player. So you should probably…"

"Avoid. Yes. But Violet, before you go, you're absolutely sure there's no one else in the house?"

"Totally. Mr Rucastle's never even mentioned he _has_ a daughter. She doesn't live here anymore."

He lets her go then. And _watches_ her go. He'll stand right where he is until he sees her through one of the front windows, safely inside. Or at least until he hears the closing of the door and knows she's past Carlo. John steps up next to him. Only once he's close does Sherlock realize how respectful his distance was. He gave them their space, he let them talk. And now he's worried. Because what do Sherlock and Violet share, what makes them _them_, and John something separate? It's with not a little suspicion that he waits for John to speak.

"That's it? We're just walking off? I thought we brought her back so she could let us in."

"While I am not entirely averse to breaking and entering, where it might serve to further the pursuit of the truth, I'd rather not try it at the home of a former Detective Inspector and his canine defender. Especially not when it's going to be so easy to gain _legal_ access."

"How?"

"If you're in the pub around seven-thirty tonight, you'll see." John grimaces. Hates little turns like that. He feels like he's being fobbed off. It wouldn't be polite, or even nice, to twist the knife. "Really, you'll kick yourself. It's not even very clever."

"Well, that, I definitely don't believe."

"I did say 'very', didn't I? It's still clever."

"Yeah, that sounds a bit more you." That puts something of a smile back on their faces. It gets them, at least, as far as the end of the drive. Then Sherlock has to stop, to close the padlock back on the gate. It's instinct rather than any sort of fear that makes him draw his hands back into his sleeves, shielding his fingerprints. While he does it, John stands behind him, watching the road. It's quiet here, private. Here at the beginning of the trees, Rucastle's is the only turning. They're alone, and Violet is far from them. "I'm sorry," John says.

Hesitating, trying to clarify, "About what?"

"Violet. I know you… Well, no. I don't know what you thought, not really. But I know you were hopeful and-"

"What are you talking about?"

John stares, for just a moment. That gormless look on his face, like when he's about to say something he knows will turn out to be stupid. It feels like the only answer to him now, but in a second, Sherlock is going to turn it on its head. He's sure of that. But for once, he can't even imagine what might be coming. Another moment of the stare is disbelief. Then John looks back toward the house, lifts his open hand to show what he means, "It's obvious, isn't it? Sherlock, there's no way she's clean."

Anger swells, and blossoms, and is squeezed to pop in under a second. Calm as he knows how to be, "Yes, she is."

"Well, maybe if you don't actually _look_ at her."

"Not to put too fine a point on it, but which of us is better qualified to know if someone is using or not?"

"The trained medical professional."

"Fine. In your professionally trained medical opinion, what's the proof?"

John makes a list. It is extensive and comes very easily to him. This is what Sherlock saw on his face in the café. He was picking these things out, lining them up for later on. 'Long sleeves' are on the list, in which case both of them and everyone they've so much as passed today is a suspected addict. The small scab on the side of her face, which may well be the last remnant of a much larger problem, is on the list. Incoherent speech, paranoia, the jerky alertness, that's when Sherlock feels the needs to interrupt. "Also symptoms of fear and anxiety."

Still listing, undeterred, "She walked like her hands and feet were made of lead."

"Naturally. She was standing in a window at half-three this morning…"

"Alright then. No laces in her shoes." No. Sherlock noticed that too. There were safety pins holding either side of the upper to the tongue, but no laces.

"You get very observant," Sherlock mutters, "when you're looking for faults."

"No laces. Refute that. Weren't you the one who told me what that means?"

It means she used them for tourniquets. What it _doesn't_ mean, is that she did it lately. "Old shoes."

"No they weren't. And even I saw that. I don't know what's worse. The idea of you lying about it, or the idea of you not noticing…"

_Don't think you're smart. You're not smart, and certainly not smart enough to tell me what I'm supposedly missing_.

The things Sherlock wants to say are cruel to both of them, and will take them into too-cruel territory. What he intends to do instead is walk away. He will leave John to his own devices until he is ready to accept that he is wrong. His observations are correct, but his conclusions are far from it. When he is willing to be counselled, to hear that there are alternative explanations to the one he so adamantly believes, Sherlock will be waiting. For now, he needs to get away from here, out of sharing space with him.

He is tossing up whether or not to formally excuse himself, and glances to check his exit, following the road deeper into the woods.

Someone is coming toward them. Another farmer, perhaps. Certainly the same boots. Younger, though. Weather-worn, but not yet tanned to leather. Scarred across the hands and arms, and with one small nick by the corner of his eyes. Someone's hired help. Walking fast but not out of breath yet; he only picked up speed when they came into sight. Headed straight for them. John sees Sherlock looking and the argument ends. "What's happening?"

"One way to find out," Sherlock mutters. Lifts his voice, and his face to show he's listening, "Hello?"

The young man points at Rucastle's house. Arm straight, strong, and not being delicate. He tips his head and there's a glitter of little flashes from his ear; a long bar from edge to edge, two studs caught in the inside curve. "Were you up there?"

That's all he wants to know. He wants to know it now and with great urgency, but it's all he's asking. John is cagy but Sherlock answers, as quick as he knows the answer is wanted, "Yes."

"Is she there? Is she there now? I don't care about the fucking dog, I'll take the fucking dog; is Alice up there? Alice Rucastle. Small, brown eyes-"

"No. Alice doesn't live here anymore."

"She _does_," the farmhand insists. Turns his open hand into a fist, so tight it shakes, juddering in the air like the moment a punch lands, trapped in that little violence. "He told me that too, but she does. She wouldn't have gone anywhere and not said something."

John steps forward to intervene. "There are two people living there," he explains. Sherlock finds his gaze drifting back to the odd, staggered building on the hill. In one of the front windows, a curtain flutters down to hang straight. Violet was peering from behind it. Why are the curtains drawn in the daytime? "One of them," John is saying, "is Mr Rucastle-"

"-Yeah, the lying _prick_."

"-And the other is his live-in… _help_. Neither of them is called Alice." If seeing them had given him any hope, the young man loses it now. He gives up on them, waves them off as part of the conspiracy. He shoves past John muttering about lies and liars and keeps on down the path towards town. John turns to Sherlock, "What was that?"

"Proof." His own plan hasn't changed. Sherlock turns in the other direction, content to leave John standing there alone. "Proof," he calls back, "that whatever you think of Violet Hunter, we've still got work to do here."

Sounding almost bored, "Where are you going?"

Too soft, not wanting him to hear, "To shoot up…"

"So the pub, then? Half past seven?"

"_Yes._"


	8. Chapter 8

At seven o'clock, Sherlock is sitting quietly in the corner booth at the pub. He's in someone's accustomed seat, he can tell from the glances, but he ignores this. As a visitor, he has an excuse not to notice. He needs the quiet and the isolation, and a good view of the door in case John decides to be early. He doesn't think that'll happen. Given how they left it, John will probably decide to be late, just to prove how little time he wants to spend with him just now. He'll be late rather than say anything about it, because the only answer he'll get is that he didn't have to come. Sherlock is rather counting on that little fact.

There is no alcohol in front of him. If asked, if it was important, he might say that the water in the glass was a gin and tonic. But it can't be alcoholic, not this evening.

He glances at his watch, wondering if perhaps he got the timings wrong. Even as he's looking up the door is opening.

Jethro Rucastle is almost exactly as he remembers, and any changes are easily accountable to the years that have passed. Age hasn't bowed him, and he still carries himself to his full and imposing height. Paunchier these days, he's still a strong man. His hairline has whitened and is creeping steadily towards the back of his head. But above all else, he still holds court. He demands attention when he walks into a room, without giving the appearance of demanding anything. He accepts the smiles and greetings as he passes with absolute grace, like a prince among peasants.

Quite deliberately, Sherlock averts his eyes, and just doesn't look.

Seven o'clock. Given the travel time to London by car, and the usual end of the day's matches, factoring in a pint with the men he used to work with, accounting for his probable anxiety to return to the house he's so determined to protect? Seven o'clock.

Sherlock sits quiet, not noticing. Rucastle has a drink bought to him by one of the farmers and, like all small-town celebrities, sits at the bar. Whether he really can or not, he feels like he can see everything from there. He can hang ugly over the younger barmaid, until she shies away and goes to clear tables. Everyone can see where he is and come to pay homage.

He has always been this way; vain, egocentric, susceptible to flattery. When he was tasked with clearing the dosses, the best thing a smart junkie could do was pocket everything you might be in possession of and meet him on the doorstep. Say hello, tell him he's looking well, be a vile, crawling creature with absolute respect for his authority. Usually you could walk out past him before the arrests started that way. Needy, obsessive, craving validation and attention and-

"Another drink, Mr Holmes?" says the barmaid, reaching for the glass of melting ice. She made it to his table while he thought back, and when he glances up is looking at him with pleading. Please want another drink. Please give her something to do so she doesn't have to go back over there and suffer the loud, crude innuendo again.

"No, thank you," he says. But says it loudly enough to be heard at the bar. Says more so that he will definitely be heard, "Actually, I might shove off now."

She looks disappointed, but not for long.

"I don't believe it," comes the voice. The sounds of Rucastle getting down from the bar and bringing his glass with him. "I do not _fucking_ believe it." _Fahkking._ That full-voweled stretch of a South London accent, the deliberate vulgarity of a man, supposedly proud to be working class. Living in four-storeys and an acre or so in the countryside, but proud to be working class. "That's not the _famous_ Mr Holmes, is it?"

Swallowing down bile, Sherlock looks around to watch him coming. Squints, pretending not to recognize him.

"Nah," grins the former copper, "Why would you remember? Probably don't remember much from them days, do you, son?" That diminutive… Would the old wood of the table stain, Sherlock wonders, if he were to punch the prick in the nose, or would the flaking varnish bear up? "Y'know, I'm always telling people about you. Especially back at the Yard. Whenever they were all dead impressed about you, I just felt like someone ought to tell it."

Determinedly concentrating on the glass in front of him, "Sorry, have we met?" Sherlock makes sure his first two fingers are tapping on the rim.

"Fag you're after, is it?" Rucastle pats down his jacket, comes away with a tin of Café Crème.

"Smoking ban," Sherlock mutters in reminder.

"Well, we'll just see if anybody says anything to me, hm?" The tin is held out. Sherlock raises a polite hand. "Quit these and all, have you? Right puritan these days, in't you?"

"Alright, who are you? Where've we met?"

Rucastle stops to light his thin, dry cigar. He is in no hurry whatsoever. Then he holds out his hand, "Jethro Rucastle. D.I. Rucastle, once upon a time." Sherlock does not shake the proffered hand. He lifts the glass and drinks as if he wishes there really was something stronger in it. Taking a glittering sort of pleasure in it, "Oh, that's rung a bell. That's rung a whole belfry, that has."

Tersely, "So you've retired, have you?"

"And you've got yourself a job to do. How times change, eh? Doing alright for yourself? Or is it still that poky little spot at Marylebone?" A long breath swamps Sherlock in thick, pungent smoke. He doesn't have to pretend anymore to be suffering a terrible craving.

"And you've moved to the country," Sherlock says. This time he does it with a sudden and deliberate smile, as though he had decided to fight back. "Must be dull for you. For you and… didn't you have children?"

"My Alice is chuffed, living up here, thanks very much. She likes the nature. Good for her art, don't you know…"

"She still lives with you, then."

Rucastle's expression is warm, full of overwhelming love. He looks as though he's taking about a newborn, rather than a girl in her twenties. "She does. Light of my life, that girl. Don't know what I'd do if she were away from me… You've no family, as I remember."

"Not the sort you mean."

Suddenly laughing, "What other sort is there?"

The sort which is chosen. No more or less meaningful, but just as valid. But that could never occur to a man like this. "…Well, quite."

"You're not a person til you've a family. No offence. That's just my opinion. But it makes you human, when you gather people round you. You get somebody to protect and you take yourself out of the equation. Turns you into a person, when you've a family. Takes some of that selfishness out of you."

Oh, here it comes. He's heard Rucastle's theories about selfishness before. He's even heard some variant from Mycroft, and from his father a while ago. From Molly Hooper on several occasions (one of which still stings if he thinks too much about it). Never from John, though. Maybe in mutterings and in shameful glances, but not in so many words, and never with the sort of _disdain_ that he's used to. And that does mean something. That will always mean something.

"Root of all addiction, you know." This is as neat and precise as Sherlock has ever heard it put. Then again, Rucastle has had years upon years to refine his thoughts. "You couldn't do it if you were thinking of someone else." He looks up and shouts to the bar, "Lisa, love! 'Nother scotch, one for the road." Looking back, "But look who I'm talking to. You know it, don'cheur? Got that fella of yours these days. Bet that's a help to you. Not least 'cause if you put a foot wrong he'll be typing it up ten minutes later!" Rucastle laughs raucously at his own not entirely funny joke. He only stops when he glances at his watch. "I s'pose this is you two getting away, is it? Nice little weekend up the country. Good for you, I suppose. You're right, though; not what I'd call family."

"No, I hadn't thought so."

Just mentioning it has given Rucastle an idea. So he thinks anyway. It doesn't occur to him for a second that Sherlock might have helped put that idea in his head. "Come to lunch tomorrow."

"Hm?" as in shock, as if he couldn't possibly have expected it, "Oh, no, I couldn't."

"The two of you. Sunday lunch, proper dinner. Let a man be hospitable, what? You'd be doing me a favour; bit of company!" He's grinning now, fully enamoured, in love with the whole concept. Inviting this poor, crumbling sod and his borderline sponsor up to see his riches and largess. There'll be some gaudy, awful retirement car on the drive. Violet will be paraded round to show off the fact that he can afford to keep staff. There'll be expensive, probably tacky ornaments everywhere. Carlo the killer will be carefully chained away from the house.

For appearance's sake, Sherlock makes one more weak attempt to wriggle out of it. As Rucastle's final drink arrives, he is once again cut off. Rucastle won't hear a word of argument. He likes the idea too much to let something like his guest's reluctance to get in the way. Then he knocks back the scotch. He stands up before he says goodbye, so that he can stand towering over Sherlock's slight slouch. This time when he puts out a hand, Sherlock really has no choice but to take it. Rucastle's hand is red and dry and hot. Uncomfortable.

He lingers after the farewells. Just for long enough to puff another lungful of cigar smoke over him, before smiling, and turning to leave.

Sherlock waits until the air has cleared before taking a long, deep breath. He tries to recover himself. It involves switching off, to a certain degree. There was a lot he had to let go of, to show Rucastle what he needed to see. Now he has to put that away again. And given the events of the day, given Violet and John and everything else, it's taking a little longer than usual.

He is still concentrating on that when he becomes aware of John settling in on the other side of the booth. "You're in someone's seat," he says.

"Then let's go."

"Go? But… But it's half-past seven."

"Mmh. You just missed him. Sorry."

"You said half-past seven."

Sherlock shrugs. "Rucastle was early. I miscalculated." John doesn't reply. He cuts his eyes curiously at Sherlock in absolute silence. "What?"

"Early, fine. I'll buy that. But you? Admitting it was your mistake?"

"…It's been known to happen, John."

"Yes, and it just did. What happened? What did I have to miss?"

Weakness. The admission of guilt and the acceptance of pity and the wordless acknowledgement of all those things which are not right with him and will never be right. Weakness. Tomorrow is going to be difficult enough. Today would have been unbearable. "We've been invited to lunch."

"What did I have to miss that got us _invited to lunch_?"

"…That's not funny."


	9. Chapter 9

Once again, it's closer to early than late, and Sherlock is not sleeping. It shouldn't be odd. Anyone who knows him can attest to his irregular habits, especially when there's a case. Especially when the case is like this one, tangled and imprecise, giving up nothing concrete yet. How could he ever be expected to sleep?

But it's not the mystery, not the strangeness of it, which is keeping him up tonight.

Tonight he is sitting at the tiny table in the room above the pub, looking down at his trembling arm. He couldn't have asked John. John has hardly spoken to him since he refused to tell him how he managed Rucastle's invitation. So he waited until the whole place fell into silence (which wasn't long ago, given the loose approach most country boozers have to legal opening hours), crept downstairs and borrowed the first aid box again. It lies open on the table, just above the arm.

Sherlock holds it on its side, pushed down hard on top of a folded towel, parallel to the table's edge. That way the throbbing wounds are on either side with no pressure on them.

It was when he tried to get up after dinner that he realized something was wrong with it. He braced his hand on the back of the booth, tried to pull himself up, and found the arm had no strength whatsoever. It shook and juddered like a damaged engine. He had to ball up his fist to hide the tremor from John. Had to _keep_ it balled up until John went off to search out mobile phone signal in the yard, so that he could call Mary just one more time.

There is a yellow liquid, no thicker than plasma though less sticky, seeping from the punctures left by the dog's vicious teeth. The bruises are livid, the colours rich as an oil painting. A mild infection. It will be fine.

Using his teeth to open the packet, he unwraps a saline wipe and cleans down the entire area. Both sides and call corners of the little towelette come away stained. That's all that happened; it wasn't cleaned properly last night. John hurried, or it was dark. Something got in the way. It'll be fine. Sherlock simply has to make it so that he cannot complain of it. If John thinks for a second there's an infection or any lingering pain, he'll insist on another look at it and, even though it is absolutely fine and there's no major problem, he might insist on a hospital taking a look. And for what? A different dressing? A local anaesthetic? Antibiotics, maybe? No. Sherlock's survived worse than a dog bite in the past. He'll survive this now.

The hydrogen peroxide in the box is not British Standard Approved, but he is grateful for the landlady's addition. To begin with, he pours a little into the deepest parts of the bite. It foams up and runs white and fizzing down either side of his arm. He grits his teeth. He was ready for this, for the eye-watering sting of it. He has his belt ready to bite on. He has to drop it for a second to strip a sterile bud out of its packaging. With that acute little tip he works around the other dots. Some of them are still weeping. Some have scabbed over with dark yellow flakes and dried blood. These are less painful, and feel more secure, so he tries to leave them alone as best as possible.

All of this done, he swabs over the spot again with the cleanest part of the wipe and prepares a new dressing. Rather than fiddle with the two-handed task of tape and scissors, he opts to simply pad the arm with cotton and tightly bandage it. It will be more mobile, and at any rate will sit flatter under his clothes. He'll need that at lunch tomorrow.

This done, he tests his fingers. They do not quite form a fist, nor do they quite open out straight. That won't last. That's because of the lingering burn from the peroxide, he's sure. That will have levelled out in the morning.

His eyes light on another one of the landlady's additions, hanging in the corner of the box. Painkillers. And of no ordinary, over-the-counter sort either. These are in the familiar orange-brown plastic of a pharmacy bottle. The name on the label has faded, though not the contents. Diazepam. To be ingested with food only. Definitely not to be ground up under the butt-end of your mobile phone, scooped into a spoon and... and... No, definitely not. Those weren't in the maker's instructions. Definitely not to be shot into a vein, drawn out again in part, flushing every gorgeous scrap out of the needle. If you found somewhere to steal diazepam, it didn't matter for a couple of days if you couldn't get what you were really looking for. If you were smart with a will of steel you could keep it for those occasions when times on the street were a bit more difficult, when the real thing was a bit tight and... and...

He shuts the box. There's no pain in it now. He tells himself that until he almost believes it. The only ache now is the _good_ ache. The antiseptic blast, the sensation of bacteria burning. That's all. And when all that is wrong and dangerous is dead, it will stop hurting. He has shut the box, and now he even takes his hand off the clasp. He dresses enough to go downstairs, picks the box up without once thinking of what's inside it.

He takes it down, sneaking into the bar itself. He is just hanging the green box on its bracket.

There's a shot. The window explodes inward and Sherlock instinctively crouches behind the bar, arms shielding his head. But the shot went miles wide of him, striking home in the wall behind the booth where he spoke with Rucastle. He looks in that direction, eases upward to check, but there's no one over there.

From out in the street comes the long, mournful bellowing, _"Holmes_!"

Sherlock chances a glance across the bar. There's a figure in the street outside, cradling a long shotgun across himself. But his head is tipped up. He's bellowing at the upper windows. Calling him out. He doesn't know Sherlock is down here. Lights start to come on. There's commotion upstairs. The man in the street doesn't seem to notice. He fills his lungs and shouts again, "Sherlock Holmes!"

He's still looking up. Sherlock takes advantage of his mistake, creeping out around the end of the brick counter. He is making his way to the door, steadily, in small, soft steps.

"Holmes!" comes the cry again. This time, it is followed with, "I know you know!" The volume has faltered. Softer now, you can hear the distress on that voice, and the slight slur. Someone has been drinking away great sorrow. Sherlock only knows he has to get that shotgun himself. "You know where she is!"

Before he'll risk the door, Sherlock falls into one of the chairs by the front window. Peering around the green-stained panels, he sees the darker shadow on the country night. Sees the lights from upstairs catching on metal and a glittering stone in the lip of his right ear.

They boy. They boy who met them outside Rucastle's after they brought Violet back. The farm-hand. He's stolen that gun from somewhere. He is pacing now to the corner of the building, perhaps wondering if his bedroom is on the side.

Over the sound of the landlady weeping on the landing, he hears feet on the stairs. Knows the spped of them, the heft, the gait. John, rushing to help. Sherlock raises one calming hand to hold him off. "What's going on?" John hisses across the dark.

"Not a clue." Then, seeing the white of a hand stretching toward the light switch. "No! It's alright so long as he thinks I'm upstairs."

"Was that what it sounded like?"

"A gunshot?" Sherlock points at the glittering remnants of the glass in the door. It used to be intricate, and read 'The Green Man' surrounded by leafy curlicues. Now it's a grim opening onto the black outdoors. "Yes." He reaches for the latches on the jamb, slowly, tentatively.

"Wait. What are you doing?"

"He's been drinking. I'm getting that gun off him while he's staring up at the gables."

John tells him again to wait. Makes some argument about the danger, something along those lines. Sherlock doesn't hear it. He is turning the old-fashioned catch, opening the door less than a foot, easing out into the cold air. He does not pull the door to. The noise, for one. For another, if John wants to follow him and he's willing to be bloody quiet about it, he can do.

He edges along the brick front. Listening only to the boy, a little hoarse now, still lowing like a bull. "You know! I know you spoke to her! You know where Ally is! _Holmes_!"

There's less light at the side of the building, just one yellow shaft coming down from one window. The boy has fixed his eyes, and his sights, on it, seemingly convinced that's where Sherlock is sleeping. Slept through the shot and all the shouting and the wailing of the old woman owner. Sherlock inches around the corner, still in the absolute dark of the wall. He puts himself in the best possible position. Then he rushes, staying low, keeping all his weight forward and his eyes on the long barrel. The boy sees him, but not until it's too late. Sherlock's better arm wraps around the shotgun and curls tight, while the other struggles the boy's hand away from the trigger end. Somewhere in the process they fall, rolling together on the grass. But Sherlock keeps his hold, and that gun will go off before he even dreams of letting go. The boy kicks out to throw him off, but can only roll him away. Sherlock ends up behind the lad's head. Ends up where the dog ended up with him last night. And, as happened with the dog, that's when the boy gets away. He rolls up to his feet, letting go of the gun finally.

"Wait!" Sherlock shouts, and grabs for his ankle. But it's only he injured arm and the ankle runs straight out of his grip, twisting back the wrist, dragging the fingers together. "Damn it!" Sherlock shouts as the escaping steps. He is trying to get to his feet and follow when he is pulled back. The whole fight couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, or John would have ended it. "Let me go!"

"Forget it," John snaps. "You're bleeding. Again. Honestly, Sherlock, twice in two days..." Until John said it, Sherlock was entirely unaware. Somewhere in the struggle he caught a blow to the jaw and must have bitten his tongue. There's a trickle from the corner of his mouth.

More lights inside are starting to come on, illuminating them. John holds out his hand. Sherlock is careful which arm he gives him to be helped up by. The weak arm is pulsing again when he wipes the blood from his chin.

John want shim back inside. And Sherlock would go, too.

Except that he happens, entirely by accident, to look up at the hill. Glimmering through the woods, there are lights on in Rucastle's house, and Carlo is rhythmically, relentlessly barking.


	10. Chapter 10

The rest of the night is lost to the usual circus. First the police, then the curious locals. The only thing that reaches remotely beyond the realm of dull repetition happens while Sherlock is in the pub's back room giving his statement. John sees it, and is able to recount. Naturally, of course, it has to be prefaced with the almost smug, "I met Rucastle."

"And do you feel intellectually richer for the experience?"

"No."

"That's what I was trying to save you from," Sherlock tells him. "What did he want?"

"Apparently he had a window shot out too. The dog chased the shooter off the property. He was in the act of calling the police when he heard the shot down here." Explaining how quickly there were flashing blue lights over the blue stone of Bishop's Breach, yes, but not why Rucastle felt the need to come down here.

But then again, what explanation could they possibly need? Rucastle is a former officer himself. From, if not a better police force, then a larger and better equipped one. "He came to rail against the local efforts, did he?"

"I think he was trying to organize them."

"Why aren't I surprised?"

"Kept going on about whoever let the little prick get away."

"Little prick," Sherlock echoes. "Then he's certain it's a man. And if he's using 'little' then Rucastle knows exactly who was holding that shotgun."

John shrugs, "So? So do we. You said so. The boy we met on the road."

"Yes, yes, but _Rucastle_ knows it. It's Alice. It's all about Alice."

The boy is convinced that Alice is still in the house. 'She wouldn't have gone away' implies that he's been told otherwise. Rucastle _said_ as much, that Alice still lives there. And Violet Hunter is certain there was no such person in the house. Alice Rucastle is the heart of this. That's what he needs to get to the bottom of. Everything will fall open around her.

"John, did he tell the police the boy's name? Did he tell them anything about him?"

John, by now, is starting to see his point and sits down, the two of them elbow to elbow at a closed bar. "No," he mumbles. Reaches over the bar and picks up a clean tumbler. All of the bottles are out of reach, but still he holds onto the glass as if it were full. After a long pause he says, "Okay."

"Okay, what?"

"Okay, there's a case here. Okay, your friend Violet's in real trouble."

Fine. Now that he's arrived at his own conclusions, all by himself, like a big boy, now John is finally on board. But here in the middle of the night Sherlock holds back from saying any of that. "Most gracious of you," he mutters, but that's all. He lifts a glass too and finds that, yes, there is a sort of comfort in simply cradling it.

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"It's not my fault you're stubborn."

"No, shut up. Landlady's coming."

John nods up at the mirrored back bar. She's coming in from outside, from a police car, big and bustling and ready to explode. The sight of them on the bar stools is exactly the valve she needs. And when she sees the glasses, empty, "I hope you intend to pay for those!"

John begins a stammering attempt at an explanation. Sherlock sets a hand on his arm to stop him. "We will, of course," he says. As calm and placatory as he knows how to be. "And for the window. Get a glazier here in the morning, don't worry about the cost on a Sunday, to put in something temporary, and you can send the bill when you get the signage replaced."

Some of the ruffled feathers settle back into place. Pouting and haughty, "I should think so. And what was all the shouting about, if you don't mind my asking? What girl are we all talking about?"

Town gossip. While he's clearly in the mood to please her, she intends to take advantage. She's fishing. Sherlock wouldn't usually allow her to be fed. John knows that, and is looking ruefully into the dry bottom of the glass, waiting to hear what withering denial is about to be delivered. His head snaps up when he hears, bright and honest, "Alice. Alice Rucastle."

"Surely not!" the landlady balks. She comes first to the end of the bar, placing both hands down as if she needs to be supported, as though her disbelief goes deep enough to weaken her knees. Then she's in behind it. She grabs John's glass away from him and pours a sizeable measure of brandy. Swigging it away, she pours another, and holds out the bottle to Sherlock. He politely declines. "Not young _Alice_," the woman goes on. "She couldn't be in any trouble, could she?"

"There's no way to be sure yet," Sherlock tells her.

"Well, _I'm_ sure. Alice is a good girl. Why, she doesn't even touch a drink, bless her heart. She sits in here with an apple juice whenever we see her, and even that's not often."

Down below her notice, John takes the unused glass from Sherlock's hand. He feels this without looking down. It appears again in the corner of his eye when John holds it conspicuously out, maybe hoping for the same offer he got.

The landlady pours her third slug without so much as a glance at him. "Quiet girl. Got a lovely _smile_..."

Which is just the sort of thing that Sherlock can't bear. "Seen her lately?"

"Now that you mention it, not these couple of weeks... Then again, I did hear Mr Rucastle talking that she'd gone off with some girls she knew from university. I thought it was just a weekend, but maybe it's a right proper holiday they're having. Aw, good. I'm glad. She deserves it, that girl."

Another concerned neighbour appears at the door, asking in utter shock what happened. The landlady bustles off, to bask in pity and share her new information.

"That's four people we've spoken to about Alice Rucastle," John begins.

"And four different accounts of her whereabouts. Yes."

"So three of them are lying, then. And one of them is telling the truth."

"You can be such a sweet, trusting person. I can see why Mary married you." John starts to swell, allowing himself just a little moment of pride. "If she ever gets bored, it'll be the easiest affair ever conducted." Under the glare that follows, Sherlock corrects him. "One of the four people _knows_ the truth. And that one person is lying. The rest have been lied to, and are simply repeating incorrect information."

"And the one person is?"

"Jethro Rucastle."

He's the one with something to hide. There isn't enough information yet to guess what that might be. But he's the one covering up. And he's doing it so very well. Rather than spread one wrong story, he's spreading a number of contrary ones. The overall effect is one of chaotic disinformation. Alice is at university, Alice doesn't live here, Alice has gone away, Alice is on holiday. The only solid thread that runs though all of it – Alice is gone. The only thing that anyone will ever be able to agree on, Alice is not at the house on the hill. It _is_ clever. It's so very clever except for one thing.

"The only mistake he made was with me. He told me Alice still lives with him. He doesn't know what he'd do without her, what would happen to him if she ever left. He told me that. But he was relaxed. He'd been drinking and let's not forget, he was talking to someone he perceives as being no better than pond scum. That was the mistake."

"And if you had to guess?"

"Alice Rucastle, one way or another, never left this village. And we should use lunch tomorrow to find out if she even got out of that house."


	11. Chapter 11

John knocks the door just as Sherlock is getting ready for lunch. "Come in."

"That policeman was by again, just saying – what are you wearing?"

"Surely that's outside his jurisdiction?" John doesn't rise to it. Or maybe he simply doesn't hear. There's something of a trance in his blank stare, pacing around Sherlock, craning to see from every angle. Perhaps he is looking to see if there is some redeeming feature he's missed. He won't find one. He'll find a torn seam under the far arm, but that's all. "It's a jumper, John, not a specimen for study."

"It's a _disaster area_, is what it is." John laughs, sudden and bright, "Oh, look! It's got ventilation!" Sherlock shudders away from the wriggling fingertip pushed through a worn out hole near the collar. "I don't get it," John manages through his amusement. "You'll have to explain."

Sherlock turns back to the mirror. Roughly, with his fingers, he shakes the parting out of his hair and lets it fall where it may. "What did the policeman want, if not to give fashion advice?"

"The boy from last night. They got him. Name's Fowler, apparently. He's local. He's sleeping it off in a cell in the next village, back by the train station."

"Good. We'll speak to him after lunch."

"After? If we leave now, we'll make it. Mrs Loudon down the road said her nephew would give us a lift."

_Down the road_... The image occurs to Sherlock. Just a flash of it. He's not prone to fantasy, but when it hits him it is potent. John in a village. A country doctor. One of the community. Gallstones and casual midwifery. Maybe an accident with farm machinery on an exciting day. With a moustache. He shakes it all off.

With a little more conviction this time, "After."

"Why?"

"Trust me. After will be more effective." _He_ will be more effective after. After, he imagines he will be in the mood to perform a full and revealing interrogation. After, he will be in the mood to check for answers beneath the outer layers of the boy's skin, if need be. Before he will be distracted. After is better.

Slowly, the truth dawning on him, John begins, "_Oh_-"

"Besides," Sherlock tries to interrupt, "you weren't near him last night. I was, and judging by the particular pungency, the frankly-"

"-I get it now-"

"-overwhelming odour of grain alcohol coming off him, the boy's brain will still be addled-"

"And the jumper too, it makes sense now."

"- I want him lucid when I talk to him."

"Rucastle still thinks you're scum and you're going to play at being scum."

Sherlock breathes out. Feels his shoulders sink. _Play at_. Who could ever thank John Watson enough for _play at_? Sherlock tugs the stretched cuff of his jumper down, ensuring his replacement bandage is covered up. Today there is nothing more than a slight tremble in his little finger. Pressure, that's all. He's sure of it. What could be wrong when John says 'play at'? How could he repay him by giving him something to worry about?

"Well," he manages, once he's cleared his throat, "Rucastle's already a careful man. Clever about it too. The less he thinks of me, more chance of him relaxing, making a mistake."

"It's good. Good plan. One question." Sherlock waits for it. "Where did that jumper even _come_ from?"

"...It's been about."

These days he only wears it when there's a chance of acid burns or nasty stains. The tissue-thin patch of scorch damage on his sleeve, right over the bandage, was done by rogue phosphorus, not a dropped cigarette or a forgotten joint. There are other parts he can't say the same of. When John found him, when he was trying to draw out Magnussen in the doss, it was under that godawful raincoat. The raincoat is gone. The jumper was just something he didn't want to let go of. In case of phosphorus, obviously.

Sensing the need for a subject change, John asks, "What do you think we'll find up there?"

"I try not to guess. The truth generally turns out to be stranger and more diverting."

"Don't people usually say the opposite? What you imagine is always worse or weirder?"

"_What you imagine_ is in _your_ head. It's within _your_ parameters. When you meet someone like Jethro Rucastle, you have to let him lead the dance. His parameters are not like yours or mine."

John rolls his eyes. John, Sherlock suddenly realizes, thinks he has a personal grudge. So it's not just interest, but a _challenge_ when John demands, "Example."

"He once told me – now, I was, putting it delicately, high enough to hear angels so this might not _quite_ be verbatim but I'll try – that if he had his way he would have a lead weight tied to the feet of every addict, and a rope tied to their hands, and he would have them lowered in great lines off either side of London Bridge and gradually into the river."

A moment's pause. Then, "That's all just talk."

"True. But tell me, would that idea ever, in a thousand years, have occurred to _you_?"

The pause is longer this time. When John speaks again, all the challenge has gone out of him. He's perfectly grave now. "The daughter... With an imagination like that... Surely it wouldn't take much to push him and..."

It is the one thing Sherlock is utterly certain has not happened. Alice is the shining light of her father's life. Anything else could have happened to her. Anyone else could have hurt her. But not Rucastle. "No. He hasn't hurt her. Beyond that, it's as I said; I don't guess. Violet will be a help to us there. I'll need to get a word with her privately."

"You think she'll have found something out?"

"I think young Fowler shot out a window last night bawling about Alice, and Rucastle is prone to muttering."

There doesn't seem much else to say. Sherlock perfects the imperfections of how he's dressed, threading a needle to add a clumsy white stitch to a black cuff. John looks blankly out the window. Toward Rucastle's house, maybe, but Sherlock's not sure he's seeing anything. Just drifting. He's more than ready for the question when it comes. "Sherlock?" He waits. "Before, when you were talking about... London Bridge. And you said you were so high you could hear angels."

"Yes."

"You've never talked about it like that before. You've never... You've never _really_ talked about it. At least, not without making me want to cry tears of blood with dragging it out of you." The attempted humour can't cover up what he's really asking.

"Practicing," he lies, through a grim stretch of a smile, "for keeping Rucastle's opinion low."

* * *

Lunch is off. They have begun to suspect that even as they reach the end of the drive. From the back of the house, Carlo is barking, and sounding like he has been since the last time Sherlock heard him. Through the shattered living room window, Rucastle is a blistering shade of red all the way back to the roots of his receding hair, bellowing into a telephone about Sunday operating and emergencies, about his need of a new front window. The trees give him an echo better than a cathedral could.

"Maybe," John suggests, "this isn't the best time."

It is the perfect time. He's weak and angry. If a mistake's going to be made, these are the optimum circumstances. Nonetheless, he is on the point of agreeing, turning, leaving again. At the last moment his resolves strengthens. "No. Come on." There's Violet to consider. Alice might be the mystery, Alice might be what he's hung up on. But Violet called him here to begin with. She called him because she was frightened, and she's in that house now.

They reach the empty window frame just as Rucastle has finished, barking his last sarcastic thank you at whoever he's just bullied into helping him.

He sees them coming and changes fast as elastic snapping. His body language opens, becomes gregarious and expansive. From somewhere deep, he dredges up a weary, put upon smile. The crimson gradually drains from his head and neck as they speak.

"'Fraid lunch is off, fellas," is his joking opener.

"Of course," Sherlock says, with severe and ever-so-honest concern. "We heard there'd been trouble here too."

Through his nicotine-stained teeth, "Nothing to play detective over, Mr Holmes. They got the little bugger."

"And everyone here's alright? How's Alice? I'm sure she was petrified, all that shouting about her and the gun flying around..."

Sherlock watches and _feels_ Rucastle's eyes roll over him. They skip almost joyously over the scrapes and stains and tugs in the old jumper. Looking at those and not Sherlock, the magnanimous host sighs relief, "Thank God, but Alice is down in the city with one of her mates."

Sherlock nods and John agrees sternly, "Thank God for that. And no one else was hurt?"

"Who else is there?" Rucastle asks. He winces, and turns to bellow over his shoulder, "Carlo, shut up!"

The dog falls into roughly two seconds of silence. In the gap, Sherlock knows John looks to him. Some sort of explanation, some fear for Violet that will justify his own. Sherlock can't help him. He needs that time. If Rucastle turns back and sees the rage on his face right now, the ruse of harmlessness is over.

"Bloody mutt hasn't stopped. Took the better part of an hour getting back on the chain. Just what I bloody need; I'll not be able to have him loose tonight, he'd tear a hole in the world, and the fucking glaziers won't come 'til the morning. Pardon my French..."

In those few sentences, Sherlock's decision is made. He raises his hands, backs a step away from the window frame. "You've a lot to do. So long as no one's hurt, that's all we came over to find out. We'll leave you to it."

He hopes John will follow his lead. If he sees this lack of fear, Sherlock seemingly unworried, maybe he'll be better able to cover his anxiety. But there's a particular edge on his voice when he offers, "If there's anything you need-"

Rucastle cuts him off. "I appreciate that."

No. It's too much. They blew it somewhere; now Rucastle knows they're suspicious. Now he'll go to whatever lengths he feels he needs to to keep his secrets secret. There's a time limit now if they're going to find out anything at all. His mind races with all that needs to be done and how soon.

Halfway down the drive, a safe distance, John hisses to him, "Sherlock, where's Alice?"

"On the premises somewhere. And unharmed."

"And where is Violet Hunter?"

"I don't know."

One thing he does now, he sent her back there. Yesterday morning, Violet was safely out of that house, and telling him enough for him to know that there was something afoot. Sherlock sent her back there. If anything has happened to her as a result, it's his fault. That's one thing he knows for sure.


	12. Chapter 12

At a country police station, Sherlock and John don't run into quite the same trouble as they would in the city. As a matter of fact, rather than having to argue to have the rules relaxed, to gain access to a criminal suspect in custody – and with the landlady of the pub pressing charges, it's relatively serious – they're welcomed with open arms. Maybe evasive little words like 'consulting' and 'private' get lost on their way up from London. They wait like real officers in the interview room. The sheer volume of tea which is provided and promised ought to be telling them they've got something like celebrity status here.

The boy with the pierced ear is brought in. Last night's clothes are muddy and grass-stained from the struggle outside the pub. His own fault, really. You don't wear a white t-shirt when you go baying at windows, not even if it _is_ made fashionable, even edgy, by being covered in charming blue spatter marks. He carries one arm folded against himself, braced under the other. But he is pushed too hard into his chair. Puts his hands out to save himself breaking a rib on the table, and the one he held against himself is snatched back.

Inside the same second John is out of his seat and round the table. When the hand isn't willingly given, he picks it up by force and studies the palm. Looking at the officer who brought the suspect in, he demands, "Your burn kit. You're lucky it's not infected, left overnight like that."

"He wouldn't let us at it-"

"Your burn kit." It is unequivocal and it invites no questions. The officer goes about it. John looks at the sullen, suspicious kid. The notes say he's twenty-three, and only just turned it. "What happened?"

Fowler doesn't intend to answer. Sherlock helps. "The shotgun barrel. It dropped into his hand when he saw me. It was still warm when I took it so-"

"You never got nothing off me," the boy snaps. "I let it go."

Sherlock shrugs. The burn kit comes, and Fowler falls silent again. Submits to medical attention, but that's all. Sherlock glances at the local police's file. "So is it James or some plebeian contraction?" Fowler doesn't so much as look up. Slowly, Sherlock leans over, placing himself squarely in his field of vision. "You're in an awful position. Even this deep in the countryside, nobody's all that mad about firearms, especially stolen ones, especially in the middle of the night. Of six possible charges, drunk-and-disorderly not the least of them, you stand a good chance of being convicted of four. At a glance? At least eighteen months inside. There are two people _alive_ who are willing to listen to you and give you some other way out and they're both sitting in this room."

"Jamie," Fowler finally admits. "And it's three."

"Got yourself a lawyer already, do you?"

The boy shakes his head, almost sad. "Alice," he says. The name is soft. It's a prayer to him. "And I did it for her, so that's all that matters. I know you don't believe me and I know you were hired not to. I don't care. I did it for her."

John has stopped midway through soothing the burn. "Wait," he says. "Go back. Why do you think we're here?"

Fowler snarls, "You don't need to keep lying. Rucastle told me everything. He tried to crack it was Alice got in touch with you herself, but I know it was him. Here to get rid of me, out of his life, away from his little princess, well, let me tell you something, right? Alice is nobody's princess. She's her own person and he just can't take th-"

"Bastard," Sherlock mutters. He hears the word before he even knows it's coming from him. _Bastard_. He rarely swears, but when he does it's compulsive. It's meant, heartfelt. It's meaningful. Fowler stops, thinking it means him. John stops not knowing what it means, glances over his shoulder. Sherlock looks up to meet his eyes. "He's written us in. Rucastle. He's using _us_ as part of his stories, the confusion." Just a thread in someone else's fiction. Sherlock burns. "Jamie, confirm for me – after we met on the road outside the house, at some point, you went back and asked Rucastle what he knew about my being in the village."

"I just thought, with him being a copper and you being a detective, it wasn't a long shot."

"Good. Incorrect, utterly spurious, but good. And Rucastle caught an opportunity. He doesn't know why we're around. He thinks this is a bloody couple's holiday-"

"-_What_?"

"Shut up, John."

"You corrected him, though?"

"-he told me as much, and-"

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, I'm married. What do I have to do, get 'I'm not gay' tattooed across my forehead?"

"John, _please_! You." He points and Fowler snaps to attention. "_You're_ in love with Alice Rucastle."

There is no hesitation. There is no blush or youthful shame, no awkwardness. Jamie Fowler says, "Yes."

"_You_, from the look of your hands and the distribution of muscle, the vast array of scars and minor injuries, are a manual labourer and handyman. Judging by dress sense, body language, attitude, syntax, you have no job security or fear of the future. And based on the state of your eyes and all the times so far we've crossed paths, you habitually binge-drink. You're a walking catastrophe."

John, exasperated with trying to dress a hand which is trying to curl into a fist, "Where were you at his age?"

"And do you think Rucastle would have me for a son-in-law either?" Fowler hangs his head. "When were you going to run away, Jamie? How many _hours_ between you making that plan and Alice vanishing into the ether?"

John gives the boy his hand back. Fowler sits looking at it, flexing his fingers and palm. Bitterly, he recalls, "About four? She was only supposed to pack a bag, and wait until was dark. Her dad would be at the back of the house letting that evil fucking animal off the chain and she'd be walking out the front. I was waiting for her on the road. I've been waiting for her most nights since, but she hasn't come out yet. I tried the police and everything; worse than fucking useless."

Back on the right side of the table, John is repacking the burn kit, reaching for his tea. He thinks about that and then, "The police _know_ about this?" Sherlock cuts his eyes across. John is learning two things from this. Firstly that to any halfway intelligent detective, Jamie Fowler looks like a borderline psychopath with a dangerous grudge who knows how to use a shotgun. Secondly, and which option has given Sherlock himself something to fear, they're about to learn a lot about Jethro Rucastle from whatever Fowler says next.

"Took them ages even looking into it. Had to ask about three times before they took me serious. It was the middle of last week before they went anywhere near there. So they went up the hill, and they sat in that house and they had coffee, so they say, with Rucastle, and with Alice. Alice, so they say, was totally fine. A bit quiet, they said, but she always is. Alice was safe in that house and under no... whatever they call it."

"Duress," Sherlock fills in.

"Whatever they call it. Not being held hostage. But _I'm_ telling you. You can believe it or not. If Alice is still in that house, it's not of her own free will, Mr Holmes."

His piece said, Fowler sits back from the table. His bandaged hand falls into his lap.

Sherlock knits his fingers and sets his forehead briefly against them. There's weakness in that pose, vulnerability. But for just a second he allows it, because with every passing second he likes this less and less. Violet. He keeps thinking her name. Violet. Violet is probably very close to knowing something she shouldn't. Violet should be found, and made safe, before it turns into a major problem for her. Banking on his assertion that Rucastle would never hurt his daughter, there's a little more time for Alice. Violet, on the other hand, doesn't have that.

They should leave. There's nothing more to learn here.

But it's important to him, before they do, that he finds Jamie's defeated, heartbroken gaze and tells him, "I believe every word of what you just told me. And tonight we're going to that house and whatever there is to find, we're going to find it."

Jamie believes him too. Jamie takes heart in it, and hope. When the officer comes to lead him away again, Jamie at least goes a bit more peaceably than he came.

The door shuts behind him. In the tiled, echoing room, with John waiting for his conclusions, Sherlock almost doesn't want to give them.

"Rucastle's going to leave," he says finally. "In secret, taking Alice with him. And he intends to leave behind so much confusion over what actually happened that no one will ever settle on a story to pursue."

"So what? He just starts again somewhere? Just like that?"

"With his Alice and no Mr Fowler."

"That's insane." Sherlock tosses his head. 'Insane' is a loaded and relative term. But yes. Yes, it is insane. "What about Violet Hunter?"

"What about her? I don't think she features in the grand scheme of things."

"But we saw her, in the cafe. She was out and around. Other people saw her, Sherlock. She can't just cease to exist."

"I don't believe anyone in that village ever knew she existed to begin with."


	13. Chapter 13

"While I am not entirely averse to breaking and entering, I'd rather not try it at the home of a former D.I. and his canine defender."

"Come on. That's hardly the attitude."

"That's not negativity, Sherlock. That's a direct quote. From you. Yesterday morning."

"Since yesterday morning two shots have been fired and Rucastle has denied knowing anything about Violet. Circumstances are not what they were yesterday morning."

"Doesn't hurt that Carlo's safely on his chain…"

The dark of the lane to Rucastle's house hides them. They both carry their mobiles deadened against their palms, enough light leaking to keep the path ahead safe. But really, knowing the way is no problem. Nor is finding the turning of the drive; at the top of the hill, and sounding a little hoarse now, Carlo is still barking. Nonetheless, Sherlock at least is keeping his. He is keeping it in his left hand. It must be kept smothered by his side. The arm, then, can hang straight down. He'll look at it again tonight, time permitting. For now it just needs to be endured. There'll never be an opportunity like this again at the Copper's Beeches, with the broken window, the dog out of action. Left much longer, and the opportunity won't even matter. The inhabitants, known and unknown, the possible _prisoners_, they'll be gone.

"Sherlock, what if he boarded the window shut? Unless you've got a crowbar in that jumper…"

"Enough about the jumper. It's dark, it does the job. And he won't have bothered nailing up boards." The most they're likely to encounter is a double layer of duvets tacked up. _It would remind him too much of all those decrepit holes he had to clear out_. Sherlock only just refrains from saying that out loud.

Turning onto the drive, suddenly they find there is a light to follow. Like a beacon, right in the front of the house, that bedroom is lit again. Again, beyond a thin curtain, a delicate female shape is moving back and forth. Sherlock didn't notice the tightness in his chest until it suddenly relieved. Now he wants to flash the torch of his mobile up at the window, to try and get her attention. The light inside the room is dim, maybe from a bedside lamp. Plenty of darkness to signal in.

His left fist hangs like a boulder, so he changes hands.

"What're you doing?" John hisses, panicked, ready to grab for his wrist.

"Violet."

"Rucastle could be up there!"

Not listening, muttering up at the window, "Come on. You're alright. Come on, Violet." The shape of a hand appears on the window, pressing the voile curtain to the glass. Tentatively, the edge is pulled back, and she's there. Sherlock lowers the light so she won't be blinded. He watches recognition come over her face, and then relief. First she waves, maybe just acknowledge them. Then puts her hands to the sash of the window and mimes struggling with it; locked. She's trapped in there.

With his free hand, Sherlock reaches to his back pocket and pulls out two pairs of latex gloves.

John takes one pair from him. "Tell me you don't bring these up from town."

"From the pub kitchen. I'm going to get Violet out. Stay downstairs, look for any sign of Alice, or anywhere she might be being kept."

They'll get the women out. Given time for a thorough search, a long and relentless interview with Rucastle, there are a great many things Sherlock would like the opportunity to discover. Tonight's not the time. With the two victims saved, the rest will take care of itself. The rest will come out. Sherlock will make sure of it, will pursue it, will sit through the crushing tedium of the trial just to look at Jethro Rucastle standing in the dock.

Right now, picking out the thumb tacks holding sheets and towels to the broken window, he's going to get Violet, and perhaps ought to be concentrating on that.

He holds back the sheets for John to climb carefully over the jagged remains of glass in the frame. John holds it clear for him. His right hand supports him. The left trembles and he stumbles, one step just that little too loud for comfort. They freeze, and there are footsteps above them. John edges back towards the window but Sherlock stops him, points up to the source of the noise. The steps are pacing in a very small, precise area. Violet.

Sherlock moves cautiously out of the living room. Where the windows are intact, there are no blinds on them, no curtains. Wherever Alice is hidden, no one's worried about her being seen. What little light gets in shows him the stairs and he goes, flat-footed to deaden his sounds, as quickly as he dares. Violet's lit window was on the second floor. Any of the shut doors he passes could have Rucastle behind it. With Carlo still yelping on the back lawn, rattling his chain, he might not even be sleeping. And, as a retired inspector, it would be foolish not to consider the man's honed, professional senses.

None of it matters. Sherlock finds the right door and lays his hand softly against it. He tries the handle and finds it not just locked, but strangely jammed. He flashes the torch light into the keyhole. There's something there, a little strand of metal. A broken pin; Violet already tried to escape. She just had no idea what she was doing.

Something moves near his feet. He looks down, and sees in the light that seeps under the door a piece of paper, and two hairpins riding on top of it.

He sighs at them. It won't work. It's a common misconception, and it _is_ possible. This lock is old and the hole is large. There's room to work. But it's not the ten-second affair it looks like in the films and TV that Violet's dreaming of. Should he try it? There's always the lucky chance, that the tumblers just catch and the bolt just turns. Or he could go and look for a key, but Rucastle's going to have that on him, isn't he…

A pen is wriggled slowly through the gap next to the paper.

Clever girl. _What's wrong with the window?_ he scrawls, and pushes it to her. The curious way the floors of the house are stepped against the hill would make it easy for her to climb down, no possible fall being more than one storey.

The answer comes in purple felt-tip – _Nailed down from outside_. Suddenly the crowbar in his jumper doesn't sound like such a joke. Back to the first floor, out one of the windows, and up onto the patch of roof outside that room. It would be easy enough, except for the nails.

How can he leave her here? What does he write down to say he's coming back for her, and for her to believe?

The sheet of paper rustles as Violet writes at the far end of it, and then is shoved entirely onto his side of the door.

_Found Alice's handbag in back hall_.

Sherlock gives the door a light tap to show he got the message, then stands and steals back down the hall. Downstairs, John is still in the living room, and seems to be investigating the drawers of the sideboard. They can't stop to talk and there's no time to find out what he thinks he's doing.

The back hall is a little cinderblock square off the kitchen, really just a place to leave wet coats and muddy boots. The handbag hangs blatant and innocent, as though it has every right to be there. It doesn't. Not if Alice is on holiday, or at university, or gone to see friends. A little satchel of patent leather, bright electric blue, he finds it still has her purse inside, her identification, cash card. A mobile phone with a dead battery. A noisy bundle of keyrings from various tourist spots with a couple of keys mixed in amongst it. One of these is a long, old-fashioned deadbolt key. The bedroom door.

Before he goes back up, Sherlock brings Alice Rucastle's driving licence to John. A picture of her, so he knows who to look for. A round face, a little ruddy, long blonde hair. So he might remember that he's supposed to be _looking_ for her…

But whatever drove him to explore the sideboard, he's waiting with one of the handles in a white-knuckled fist. "What's the matter?" Sherlock mutters. He knows better than to whisper; the hiss of an S is always a giveaway.

He watches the drawer drawn open. Looks down into it, and gives it the torch. There, coiled like a snake, is a two-foot braid of bright blue hair, fraying at its severed end.

"Why would he keep that?" John wants to know. "That's Violet's hair. To leave it somewhere? _Frame_ someone?"

John, naturally enough, has fixated on the strangest thing, and missed entirely that there are more important things in the drawer. There isn't time to explain. He pushes Alice's keys, the one for the deadbolt sticking out, into John's hand, and tells him where to find Violet. John leaves and Sherlock slowly, methodically, empties the drawer in such a way that he'll be able to put it all back.

The long plait is on top. Cool and soft to the touch. It was in good condition when it was cut, and only the ends have turned brittle. Then there's a plain ring, unlike Alice's, with two small keys on it. There is a heavy silver-bodied pen.

There's another piece of paper. This one is heavy, off-white, with the letterhead of a firm of solicitors. Sherlock scans it, picking up the definite facts, the fragments of relevant information. It appertains to the house he's standing it, and the land it stands on. And the names. He picks up the names. Jethro Rucastle. Alice Rucastle. Leona Rucastle.

"Oh, Alice," he breathes in the silence. "Well done. One more day, that's all."

He replaces everything just as he found it, and is completing the task when he hears John and Violet in the hall. A lucky thing, to have that drawer closed again before she comes in. That hair would be an odd thing for her to have to look at.

Violet comes first, ushered ahead of John, mouthing, "Thank you." Alice's keys are in her hands, clasped tight as a rosary. With a nod, Sherlock has John close the door. It doesn't give them much, but they can speak more freely. "There was a gunshot," Violet tries to tell them. "Last night, and-"

"We got to the bottom of that," Sherlock says. John puts a hand on her shoulder and Violet sits on the arm of the sofa. "That's worked out."

"Well, I've been locked in since. I think he was just looking for an excuse; I found the handbag yesterday evening, and I saw whose it was and everything still in it. He came in and I just asked who it belonged to. He said it belonged to a woman in the village, she'd left it behind. He would bring it to her today."

"And then didn't even bother to hide it," Sherlock mutters. She was never meant to come out of that room or at least not in any fit state to be asking about handbags.

John still has Alice's licence in his hand. Sherlock reaches out and takes it, holding it under the torch light, and under Violet's face. This is the last thing. This is all, and now that he's taking a good look, it more than makes sense.

"Violet," he asks, "where are your belongings? Phone, I.D…. Hairbrush."

"I haven't seen my phone since I saw you at the café. He'd been keeping it in the hall table, but I think he knew I'd moved it. That's how I found the handbag; I was hunting for it. And the only hairbrush I'm using is the one-"

"-In Alice's room," he finishes for her.

She's coming with them. Now, tonight, and all the way back to London, should it prove necessary. It won't end or solve anything, but it will at least throw a spanner in the works, get around Rucastle's crazed plan. Just to make a mess of it, to tell him he can't get away with this. And she'll be safe. Violet is coming with them.

A crash shatters the quiet and the thought; a door flung open upstairs and probably denting the wall it hits. "Who's there?!" comes the bellow, ear-splitting even from the fourth floor. "I've fucking heard you, you little prick. Fowler?! Fowler, my son, I cannot fucking wait! 'He came at me, your honour'. 'Defending my home and my life, your honour'. Nobody'll mourn you, son!" This is the rant that is coming down the stairs ahead of Rucastle. Sherlock grabs Violet by the arm. She's coming with them. She's coming now, tonight.

Violet isn't moving. Or at least, not in the same direction. She's going back toward the living room door.

She seems calm, contained. Like she knows what she's doing.

She reaches over and puts Alice's keys into his trouser pocket. "Get out." She says this, not to Sherlock, but to John. And John, the idiot that he is, John nods as though it were the right idea.

"Quickly, Violet," Sherlock hisses.

"No," she tells him firmly. Pulls her arm out of his grip, and before he can stop her she's out in the hall, pulling the door almost closed behind her.

Rucastle is on the last flight of stairs. John is already halfway out the window, and waiting.

"Violet," Sherlock calls, as loudly as he dares. Too loud for John, who reaches through and grabs hold of him. His left arm. Sherlock weakens, from that point through every muscle in his body as though his veins were shot full of something brutal. He falls or is dragged out the window backward, broken glass giving new scars to that _bloody_ jumper, new cuts to the skin underneath. Violet's name gets confused in the groan of pain he can't help, and all of it is smothered briefly in John's arm.

"Only me!" Violet is saying brightly. High-pitched, voice shaking. "I- I, I'm so sorry, but I'd been in there so long, and I really needed a glass of water, and-"

All of a sudden, Rucastle comes over soft and understanding. "Not at all, Violet," he says. "Not at all, love." But John and Sherlock hear the door, feel the change in pressure over their heads as Rucastle just has to have a look, just has to check. He's seeing the coverings pulled down off the window. John's eyes close briefly in dismay.

Violet's voice, "I felt a draft. That's why I was coming in here."

"Fell down," Rucastle tells her mildly. "That's all. Nothing to worry about."

"You scared me a bit, the way you came down just now."

"Worried about _you_, love," he tells her. He is breezing out of the room, Violet under his arm, taking her protectively away. "I thought that lunatic with the gun was back. It's you he'll come after, you know. I only had you upstairs to keep you safe, sweetheart." Sherlock's vision blurs and skews. It's that talking. It's that voice and what the bastard's saying. It's what he thinks he can get away with.

It's Violet talking back, and getting farther and farther away.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock wants to get up. Lying beneath Rucastle's front window isn't safe, and John is already running. He wants to get up before John realizes he's not with him and has to come back. Wants to. Really does want to. And really, there's no reason why he shouldn't. It's only his fingertips that he can't feel, that oughtn't be stopping him. The throb in the livid veins beneath his wrist and inside his elbow is only his pulse. He rolls onto his right side. The best plan, where his strength is. Yes. His right side. He rolls up onto his right side. Then falls onto his back again.

"…Kill that dog," he mutters.

"Not if it kills you first," and Sherlock starts; this is first he knows that John is close, never mind leaning right over him. He didn't know his eyes had closed. John is pushing back his baggy sleeve. Says something about the bandage being too tight anyway. Then he takes a good look and recoils. The bandage has become somewhat colourful. That puts it mildly. Streaks of vivid yellow peppered over with red and a mouldy dark present themselves. And yes, maybe if you've got time to notice these things, time to push back the covering and expose the wound, the flesh has a smell. Sherlock hasn't had that luxury, and is rather irritated that John finds that spare moment. When John presses the back of his hand up to block his nose, a muffled, "For God's sake," Sherlock would like to tell him so. But how to phrase it. How to speak. How to make his furry tongue, starting to feel too big for his mouth, do anything of any worth.

Not knowing how many words he'll manage he chooses them carefully. "Just… Away from here."

It's deeply frustrating; beneath all the fog he can feel his mind still working. But he has no access. It's like trying to fix a machine with no way of getting through the outside panels. Everything rolls on inside without him. To add insult to… to an already aggravating situation, he distracts him. He can't even keep his mind on the purely-physical – John's arm across his back, his arm over John's shoulders. Shifting his centre of gravity forward and using the natural slope of the hill to tilt forward, only needing to keep his feet beneath him. He could concentrate on that and nothing else would matter.

But there's something going on. Something important, pieces clicking together. He stops abruptly and hangs, looking dizzily into the thick trees on his right, their red foliage catching in bright bloody spots where the lights of the house meet it. "The woods," he tells the darkness. "Violet's gone. She's in the woods."

John takes better hold of him and drags him on, until Sherlock has to step or fall flat on his face. "Violet's fine," he hisses. "She's in the house."

Then she isn't fine. And she's not. She's in the woods. Blue hair, in the woods. Sherlock leans into John in dismay; is this all he's capable of? Locked out of his thoughts, is this the best that he can do?

Beyond the main gate, safely hidden by the wall, John lets him slump again. Despite his revulsion he unwraps the seeping wound and leaves it to the air. Then one hand swipes the cool sweat from Sherlock's forehead, and the other has his phone in it. "No," Sherlock tries to tell him. "No ambulance. Away from here. Rucastle-"

John doesn't even answer him. He is undeterred, and is going through the motions of what service he requires. "Septicaemia," he says. "Just going into shock." Location gives him a little difficulty. John paces away, looking for landmarks in the absolute blackness. It's the stepped house on the far distant side of the village, can't miss it, but he's not thinking of that. Sherlock is, but the thought is behind steel, far away from him. He thinks of the woods, and the white and red circles in his vision.

John comes back, and sits down next to him in the verge. "Ambulance is on its way." He is, for whatever reason, untying his shoes.

"No. No amb… Amb'lnce."

"It's on its' way. Now try and slow your breathing down for me. That's it, nice and steady. In deep." While Sherlock is breathing deeply, John is pulling his shoelace free of the eyelets. He ties it tightly around Sherlock's arm, above the elbow where the veins aren't quite so dark as below. It's not what he wants to do for him, it's not the best medical procedure. Temporarily, and here at the roadside, it's the best he can do.

"Violet," and he just _does not_ know why John isn't getting this, isn't understanding that it's meaningful and important, "She's in… In the woods."

"She's with Rucastle in the house." Sherlock is starting to feel as if he ought to shut up. It's clear John is trying very hard to keep up his bedside manner. It's not really working. He's a bit too angry to properly cover up. As if triggered by the simple thought, he snaps, "_Jesus_! Why didn't you say something? And why weren't you keeping it clean?" Sherlock, as instructed, breathes deep. Then he is instructed, "Answer me, Sherlock."

As instructed, "Didn't hurt."

"Don't bloody insult me."

"Didn't hurt. No time for it to hurt."

John swears to himself. "You not eating on a case, I can put up with. Not sleeping, I can put up with. I don't _like_ it, speaking as a doctor and a human being, but I can put up with it. But you could die, Sherlock. Over a dog bite, you could die."

"_Violet_."

"Is in the woods. I know. You told me."

"No. Violet. Couldn't hurt because of… of Violet." Gently, John takes hold of his throbbing arm and turns it over. Sherlock feels as if the torch-light burns him it's held so close. It takes him almost three whole minutes to remember – John doesn't think Violet is clean. John thinks he's confessing, in his delirium. That the reason there was no pain was because the pain was killed. John is looking for needle marks among the mess.

Sherlock feels his head loll. There's nothing he wants to say anymore anyway.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, stay awake. Stay with me, mate, come on." No. No, why should he? Why should he want to? Why should he stay with John? It didn't hurt. Honestly. It didn't. For two days, Sherlock put up with it not hurting, struggled against it, worked within the limits the pain-that-wasn't-there was setting. There is work to do here and the arm did not hurt.

John grabbed it, dragging him out the window. Now look at him.

Why should he stay with John? No. The lights in his vision lure him out of consciousness, like will'o'wisps.


	15. Chapter 15

Barking voices, noise. Like catching radio stations through the static. Barking voices. A flash of blue; emergency lights. _I hope Alice is somewhere she can't see that_. Another flash, dragging around in his dim vision like the hair from a head turned fast. _False hope tonight could be a disaster_. Blue again. _One more day, Violet. That's a promise_. More dark.

* * *

Dobutamine. Noradrenaline. Levofloxacine. Sherlock keeps his eyes shut, bites his tongue. He'll be under again in a minute and he doesn't want them adding anything to that list that might send him on his way. He wants to drift in and out. At the earliest possible convenience, he wants to speak without being hushed.

With drugs and fluids they have forced the beating of his heart to grow huge and strong and fast. It's too much. It makes his ears ache, head spinning him out again. He sighs against this. No one notices. The oxygen mask covers it up.

* * *

The next time he almost wakes, there's a doctor in the room. She and John are discussing the numbers on his charts with wary interest. Sherlock allows enough consciousness to seep in that he can note, there is no more nausea. He is more aware of himself now.

He only shuts his eyes for a moment, to let the woman leave the room. If he tries to speak now he'll be told to rest, to forget. He needs to wait for John alone.

Not that he'll be more understanding, nothing like that. When Sherlock says that he needs to leave here and return to the Copper's Beeches immediately, there won't be so much as a moment to explain that there's a life other than his own at stake. No, it's simply that John isn't so likely to raise the alarm when he gets up to go about it anyway. John won't rain down Security on him.

Just for a moment, just until she leaves, Sherlock shuts his eyes.

* * *

More than a moment has gone by.

Now he can't hear anything. No voices. Nothing immediate. Slowly, the rest of the world starts to break in. A bleeping machine. Footsteps in the corridor. A crow outside the window. Someone's worried relative taking it out on a staff nurse down the hall. Then the closest noises, the smallest – his hair on the pillow, his heartbeat still settling. Someone breathing, close by.

Sherlock wriggles, testing his muscles. Then starts to sit up, removing the oxygen mask as he does so. "Always bloody hated those things. Right, John, call a cab and don't lie when I ask what they've done with my cloth-" He stops, realizing that it's not John he's talking to. "Oh, for God's sake. I was in no mortal danger; _what_ are you doing here?"

Mycroft straightens. Obviously the depth and comfort of the visitor's chair by the bed don't agree with him. He looks pained, stiff. Stiffer than usual, anyway. "While to begin with I resent the implication that I'm only concerned about you when you are in, as you say, _mortal_ danger-"

"Or when you want something." Sherlock climbs cautiously down from the bed. Mycroft has this one saving grace at least; he's not trying to stop him.

"You're always like this in hospitals."

"Like what, exactly?"

"Insulting." There are retorts for that, but Sherlock won't give him the satisfaction. "And the closer the call, the closer to the bone you tend to go."

"Oh, well-" as he finds that lowering himself to the bedside locker isn't all that difficult, if he hangs his right arm on the top of it. "There you have it. I couldn't have been too deep in the woods at all."

The woods. Why did he mention the woods? His clothes aren't in here. Sherlock tests the damaged arm for the first time, hooking the side rail of the bed to pull himself up. It doesn't take an awful lot of weight before it screams and he hisses.

Mycroft shifts, changes the peculiar, feminine fold of his legs. "Given that you were unconscious throughout, I suppose you're not to be blamed for not knowing, but you came very close to losing a significant portion of your forearm last night." Sherlock shakes his head. Not over a bacterial infection, and there was no dysphagia so it wasn't even tetanus. No. He doesn't know what Mycroft's been told, or more likely what wild, overwrought worst cases John's surgical mind imagined, but he was never in danger of having any actual flesh removed.

"It really wasn't all that bad," he says, finding his clothes in a narrow cupboard by the toilet. The door shields him while he dresses. "Manageable, really. Everything was absolutely fine, then a sudden pressure and… and it was no longer manageable. That's all that caused the loss of consciousness. These things happen. What time is it?"

"Ten past three. Headed back to Bishop's Breach, are we?"

Sherlock leans back, just enough to look Mycroft over. His expression is mild. He's not humouring him, nor distracting him from something else he might have missed. He asked a question. From the look of him, that's all. But it's never all, not with Mycroft. "I liked this," Sherlock tells him, "when it was easy. Now it's too east and I don't like it anymore."

Mycroft sways his head, shrugs, "Holiday might do you good, after a scare like this."

"Not scared, not a holiday. Where's John? He's much easier to ignore and walk out on."

"Home, I should think. With his wife and daughter. But if it's not a holiday, Sherlock, then what can it possibly be? After all, you know you'll never get within fifty feet of Jethro Rucastle again, after last night." John. John told him everything. In what sounds like considerable detail too. He stands back, throwing his coat over the end of the bed. Mycroft mutters, "That jumper's foul."

"Don't ask. If I say it's a holiday, can I borrow your driver?"

"You won't be going back there. I only wish I'd known about it in the first place. If this girl Hunter had some sort of problem, she could have spoken to the police. It was wrong to involve you, and irresponsible of you to get involved, considering who the so-called _suspect_ is."

_So-called_. So-called. Sherlock rages against the word. Like a pulse the world around him recedes for a moment. Into a ripple, not a darkness, so he knows he's still alright. There's no poison, no infection in that. It's the drugs they gave him; his heart overreacts.

He reaches for his phone. Switched off. He tries to switch it back on and finds it's dead. Torch must have been left on. He holds out his empty hand to Mycroft. His brother hesitates. Eyes rolling, "I promise, I'm not calling a taxi." It is grudgingly given. Sherlock begins to dial a number from memory. Five digits in, it is recognized, and he laughs. "Well, that makes sense, I suppose." While it rings he sits on the bed, idly inspecting the new and professional dressing on his arm. It is not so colourful as the last one. He's thinking about time, and hospitals, and how close he might still be to Rucastle.

Lestrade picks up, finally.

"Listen, Mycroft," comes the answer. A simple hello would suffice, but nonetheless, "I've told you before. It's a good offer, but I'm not interested."

"Well, so am I, now-"

"_Sherlock_."

"-I'll ask you about that one later. For now, though, I just called to give you a bit of advance warning. In a few day's time, I can't say precisely when but before the week is out, Alice Rucastle is going to be reported missing. None of the facts will add up, you'll get nowhere. Then you'll find her body. Probably Wednesday of next week, at a guess. And once you've got the body, just call me. And I will tell you whose corpse you _really_ have, and how and why she died, and it will be the fastest anyone has ever solved a case. And then you can arrest me as an accomplice before the fact, because I know all of this now and I'm stood here doing nothing."

Lestrade can't quite take all of this on board. There are 'wait's and 'what's and 'say that again's. Sherlock ignores them, instead looking Mycroft in the eye. Mycroft sighs at him. "Alright, you've made your point."

"I'm not entirely sure that I have."

Mycroft holds out his hand to accept the phone back. "You've made your point."


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft's co-operation – that is, if one might even call the cheerfully restricted aid he offers 'co-operation' – earns Sherlock three things. He'll be delivered back to the village before nightfall, that's one. It will be arranged for him to speak to Jamie Fowler again along the way. That makes two. The third thing he earns is a time limit; if he's not in touch before midnight, "I'll send the police after you myself, and I will offer no such thorough explanations as you just gave to Detective Inspector Lestrade. Midnight, Sherlock. By one a.m I want you back in that bed and every one of those lines back in your arm."

Midnight, and then he's got an hour to turn back into a pumpkin.

Sherlock decides not to call what Mycroft is offering 'co-operation' at all. Resources and a few hours of a blind eye, this does not equate to co-operation. His brother takes such joy in adding conditions and rules to relatively simple situations, Sherlock is the one doing the favour. This must all feel like good game to him.

He has only one imposition of his own. "Don't tell John about this."

"And why not?" Sherlock flinches. He doesn't know. It is important. He is ready to put his foot down and insist on it. A real deal-breaker, this one, and if Mycroft won't agree then Sherlock can't guarantee he's going to pay attention to _any_ of the rules already laid down. But he doesn't know why. Luckily, Mycroft only questioned him for the pleasure of doing so, and he tires quickly of waiting for an explanation. "Oh, very well, then. We'll leave him at Mary's mercy, shall we?"

"Mycroft, even _very_ sarcastic people would usually just say 'domestic bliss'." Between the door of the private room and the front car-port, Sherlock feels the little glances cut against the side of his head. He feels the change of them, the flicker with each change of heart. "No," he answers without ever having heard the questions, "I have _not_ faltered. I am _not_ sinking into any sort of sentimental slump. And to take the smirk off your face and hopefully the very idea out of existence, Violet Hunter is twenty-four years old. I defend John's marriage only because it-" _Makes him happy_. Considering the company he's in, Sherlock bites that back. "-Keeps him quiet."

"Enjoying having the flat to yourself?"

"There's no good answer to that, is there?"

He wonders how many birds have been deprived of their wings and left to build up on Mrs Hudson's doorstep in his absence. Or has the mutilator seen the growing pile and assumed that he lost interest? Did he unwittingly send a pinking-shear-wielding young female with half her left ring finger missing fleeing in tears back to her open attic full of pigeon down where the floor is covered in sticky honey and tempting rice-puffs and that one sparrow leg that didn't quite make it to his door still poking up from the boards? He wonders if she ever finished the life-sized wings she was _obviously_ building, using each bird's appendages as a separate feather.

Or, in short, he'd enjoy having the flat to himself a lot more if he weren't spending so much time _in it_.

By then the car has arrived. He reaches for the door. There's a twitch, just a twitch, as if Mycroft would like to put out a hand and stop him. But it is a twitch and nothing more. The hand stays firmly wrapped around the handle of the damned umbrella. "You're sure about this?"

Alice Rucastle will lose everything. Violet will die, and be buried under a stone without even her own name on it. He thinks of his own former grave, and Adler's, and heaven knows who else's and can't bear it. Violet's achievements deserve better.

Through careful lies and lack of evidence, Rucastle will get away with it.

Sherlock gets in the car and shuts the door. Bloody right, he's sure. They could have taken his left arm off and he'd be sure.

As the car pulls away he pats down his pockets. Adding up precisely what he has at his disposal, he has a handful of change, Alice's house-keys and driving licence, his magnifier and his lifeless mobile. "I don't suppose," he asks the driver, "my brother asked you to bring anything with you?"

"Nothing, sir."

Sherlock sighs, and zippers the phone into his inside coat pocket. It'll be safe there, and out of his way. Every time he reaches for it, he'll fumble the zip and remember.

It's more than an hour's drive to the larger village and Jamie Fowler. Sherlock settles back. Normally he'd be preparing himself, mentally; he'd think through what must be done and most effective way to do it. He'd make all the connections and neaten all the loose ends, be ready to tell the story when he needs to. But he knows all that. What needs to be done hasn't changed since last night, how to do it is simple, and the story... Well, far from simple, yes. But once certain facts fell into place, the rest followed neatly.

Alice. Alice is the only issue. He has to find Alice, and before midnight, or Rucastle wins.

It is the single unsolved problem, and until he's back on that land it is unsolvable. The force and focus of that, and the movement of the car, begin to lull him. But there's been far too much sleeping in the last half-day or so. Sherlock won't allow it, and his mind finds that flash again, the blue lights that brought him consciousness when the ambulance pulled up to the roadside. Blue, bright, blinding, electric blue.

_Violet is in the woods._ Wasn't that where he got stuck last night. Suddenly confused, with that rush of poison pulsing through him, that's where his mind stuck. _Violet is in the woods_. "Violet's fine," John tried to tell him, "She's in the house." But still, it lingered with him, he was insisting, he meant it, _Violet is in the woods_.

In an idle sort of way, he takes out Alice's licence, and holds it between his weaker fingers. He studies her fresh, round face, her deep eyes. She must take after her mother. Certainly her father doesn't have her inherent smile, mouth turned up at the corners even in a solemn official photograph. He crooks it back into his palm and turns it over and over, like a charm, all the way to the village police station.

Fowler would have been transferred today to a real prison, to be held while the landlady decides what she wants to do about her window. Only that the van was late in coming to collect him, and even then only by Mycroft's interference, is the false suspect still here. However, it seems no one has explained that to him. As Sherlock approaches the door, he can hear the odd, angry boy demanding to be told.

"Because," he explains, "in a couple of days you'll probably be framed for murder."

Fowler squints, disbelieving. Growls, "I'm in _custody_."

"Won't matter. He's smart; he'll put her in water. Won't be that long before they can't tell when she was killed." 'Her' and 'She'; Fowler's attitude changes the second he starts to put it together. Watching fear and panic creep over him, Sherlock grabs him by the shoulder and looks at the officer in charge of Fowler's cuffed hands. "Is there somewhere I can talk to him?"

They're shown back to the same interview room as before. Sherlock gives a nod and the handcuffs are removed. But that officer seems to think he's staying in the room. For almost a minute, nobody speaks. Finally the man leaves and Fowler breaks, "Alice?"

"...The world will think so. And no one will ever know any different."

"I don't understand."

No. And why should he? He's never dreamt of the possibility of Violet Hunter, never even crossed his mind there could be anybody else involved. Sherlock could try and explain it to him.

The moment the real Alice cracks, and does what her father wants of her, Rucastle will go to work. He'll kill Violet. Bearing Fowler in mind, it will probably be a violent and brutal death, as though her unstable boyfriend got angry and snapped. He'll take her to London, probably, or somewhere in between, and leave her in a body of water. Then he'll call the police and report Alice missing. 

The rest is the same as Sherlock told Lestrade.

"I'm sorry, Jamie," Sherlock says. "There isn't time."

Fowler shrugs. "Yeah, alright. Fucking fine. But Mr Holmes?" Sherlock looks up from the licence in his hand. "Don't let anything happen to her."

"No."

"So what did you need? If you got them to keep me here, you must have wanted something."

Two things. Firstly, a closer look at the t-shirt the boy is wearing. Same as yesterday. Apparently he's stuck in it until they give him prison uniform. White, and spattered across the front and one sleeve with pale blue. Sherlock removes his magnifier from his pocket, opens it out and picks up the edge of that sleeve. Fowler lets his arm be drawn up; confusion more than anything else makes him pliable. On closer inspection, every tiny spot is darker at the centre, and there are barely-tinged haloes at the outer edges.

He puts the driver's licence down in front of Fowler, pointing at the long blonde plait that hangs over Alice's shoulder in the picture. The boy moves his hand out of the way. He's just looking. Even Sherlock is surprised how gently he says, "She was with you when she dyed her hair."

Fowler almost laughs, the first sound he's made with any happiness in it. "Yeah. Yeah, she stood up too fast. Or maybe she meant to, I don't know. Should've seen the rest of the bathroom."

"How soon was that before she disappeared?"

"Same day."

"The day the two of you planned to leave."

"Yeah. She dyed her hair and she was going to go home, tell her dad where to shove it, pack a bag."

That's one thing. Just that confirmation helps. The braid John found in the sideboard was definitely Alice's. Violet, after all, said her hair was cut before it was dyed. But Violet was scared and perplexed when she told him that. He just wanted to be sure.

"Alright, one more thing," Sherlock says, sitting back down. "Where's your ladder hidden?" The boy's face creases, as if he misheard the question. "Oh, come on. The design of that house, girlfriend with an overbearing father, it's obvious. Where's your ladder hidden? Or how else were you sneaking up to her window?"

"Christ, Mr Holmes, are you forgetting the fucking mutt? There was no sneaking done."

"Are there _outbuildings_, Jamie?, that's what I'm asking you." A ladder would have been useful, but he'll get around that. The outbuildings are more important. "Anywhere on the land, that you've seen or that Alice mentioned. A shed or an old barn, something in the woods."

Fowler shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Mr Holmes. Daytimes, when Carlo's on the chain, I've been in among them trees and... no. Nothing I've ever seen."

Sherlock is almost put off by this. But no. No, Alice is in the woods. Last night, when he'd been locked out of his thoughts, that was the one thing he still knew. He mixed up his blue-haired girls, but the thing itself is correct. Alice is in the woods.

"Mr Holmes, don't let anything happen to her. I can't help her from here or I would. Don't let anything happen to her."


	17. Chapter 17

This time, Sherlock steals into Bishop's Breach like a spy. It's a good time in the evening. Whoever isn't at dinner, or turned in already ahead of a dawn start, is in the pub. The few meagre streets are virtually empty. It's the simplest thing in the world to judge a house, by the boots outside the door and the rustic, homemade cartwheel nailed to the front wall, as belonging to one of the local labourers, and to slip around to the back. Porcelain gnomes are the only guards to the garden shed. There's a latch, but no lock. And right at the back, a little rusted from disuse, there's a hook-ended prybar.

He'll return it. Really he will.

It's already after nine. The summer night is just beginning to fall, darkening the sky above his head, drawing a sickening light out of the village's odd stone. The woods, however, are in front of the sunset, and glow up bloody. Rucastle's house is drawn back amongst them, hidden.

His approach is careful, listening ahead and behind for any cars, watching to see if any of the shadows around him suddenly move. Nothing. Still except for the lazy flutter of wood pigeons looking for roosts, silence except for their low coo, and his footsteps, and the heartbeat still pressing on his veins. He'd thought that might have subsided a little by now. But maybe it's got nothing to do with the medication anymore.

Before he reaches the gate, he looks for a place on the wall. A rugged dry-stone, thankfully, great craggy boulders of the blue granite. There's a place they passed before. He thought of it last night, wishing they'd made it this far down the road before his legs vanished from beneath him. Because here, right where his head might have been suitably, softly cradled, is a gap where one of the stones has fallen away. The wall is no great height. Any other day he wouldn't need a foothold. Tonight he's glad. His left leg braces him, and with his right arm he can pull himself over the top. The shrubbery covers him. The only thing he disturbs is a squirrel, sent scuttling from his feet.

The front window was replaced, as the glazier had promised. No lights in the front of the house. But Rucastle's flashy car is still on the drive. He could be in the kitchen at the rear of the house, upstairs in the bathroom. He could be out walking the dog, provided such a crazed beast can still be collared and leashed.

What worries him most is that Alice's room is dark. He doubts that Violet would have been let out.

The only thing that doesn't cross his mind, is that he might be too late. It doesn't cross his mind because he doesn't allow it to. He'll see Violet's body before he gives up on her.

Sherlock begins to think about the side of the house, about the nearest tree and how much of an overhang there is. The answer – not much. Almost certainly not enough. With two arms, he might just about have swung himself to the ledge over Alice's bedroom, and just dropped down from there. But as he is...

Carlo barks. At the risk of being scented, Sherlock follows the noise. Maybe he stinks enough of hospitals to put the monster off.

He's never seen this part of the grounds before. The back corner of the house is straight, where the hill falls away, and there is a sort of lawn here, small, just hidden before the trees slope away, enfolding the garden. Carlo is tethered on heavy chain, shackled to a post. The post rattles, just a little, shifting earth as the mutt rages against restraints.

Rucastle is standing in front of it. He has a shotgun hanging open over the one arm, and a canvas bag on his shoulder. The boots he's wearing aren't the wellington's favoured by the locals. They belong more to his policing days. They used to come down hard on the flung-out, needle-marked arms of anyone stupid enough to lie passed out in his path. The soles are thick with coppery leaf mulch.

In his outstretch hand, he holds the severed blue plait. This is what is driving the dog to fervour, saliva dripping from his teeth, growling until it chokes itself on the chain and growling again. It leaps and snaps and claws and Rucastle only shakes the hair at it, pushing it on. Barking, "C'mon, lad," and, "You want her? You want her, boy?" Then, as they both start to look dangerous, Rucastle moves to one side. Carlo's focus doesn't change. The creature's eyes are fixed ahead, straight down the hill. Rucastle's in no danger standing so close behind, except perhaps his fingers could be severed in the snapping taut of the chain. There's a practiced grace, however, in the way that he removes the pin that fastens the chain to the stake. "Then go get her." Full of hellish noise, the dog is gone in an instant.

Instinct tells Sherlock to follow. Carlo is going to Alice. Carlo is murderous. But Alice won't be anywhere it can hurt her. He knows that, and tries not to doubt himself. Besides, following is a bad idea; Rucastle is still lingering, and would be bound to see him move.

It's hard to tell at first what the beast's apparent master is doing. He is still and casual, and lights another of his thin, foul cigars. One long drag, and the longer release, he glances at his watch and saunters off at an easy pace in Carlo's wake. Sherlock draws back behind a tree trunk until even the glow of the cherry end is gone.

He creeps out across the lawn. There, where he couldn't see it before, leaning against the back wall, is a weather-worn wooden ladder. He picks it up and takes it quickly out of the way, to the far side of the house. It takes him effortlessly to the first floor, and is light enough to pull up behind him. It makes getting to Violet blessedly easier than trying to climb one of the trees in his current condition.

The voile curtain means he can see nothing inside. He knocks, knowing Rucastle is gone. Nothing happens. Nothing. He fumbles for the pry bar, positioning it quickly under the first of the nails in the sash. He grabs it near the nail and lays his arm flat along it to the elbow, leaning. With a wriggle the pin starts to give. Once it's loose, he knocks again, and starts with the next nail.

He's on the fourth one, almost finished, right shoulder aching, when something finally happens inside. It's just movement, dark on dark, but there is something there, and he works with fresh urgency at the fourth and fifth nails.

Sherlock throws up the sash and climbs into the bedroom. He flicks the first switch his hand finds. Dozens of little lights, masked as red and white roses, come on glittering over the flounced, frilly double bed. The covers are tousled, and in the middle of them Violet lies writhing, moaning. Struggling to wake up. Sherlock leans over and shakes her, but she can try no harder than she already is. "It's me," he tells her, so that she'll know she's safe now. "Come back to me. Concentrate on my voice. I can take you out of here, but you have to walk."

She leans up from the mattress, and his arm moves behind to support her, lifting her up to sitting. She falls limp, face-first, against his shoulder, where he can feel the hot wet swell of her sobbing. One hand claws tight over the inside of her other elbow. Sherlock pulls it away and there among the healing and the scars, is a fresh puncture. He tips back her head and opens one eye with his thumbs. Even in the barely-lit room, her pupils shouldn't be so huge. "_Violet_..."

"He done it to me. Bastard done it to me." She tries to tell him more, but she hasn't the words or coordination. Anyway, he's heard all he needs to.

"Forget that. Look at me. Listen. Concentrate on me. Only me." He forces eye-contact. Takes her by the shoulders, gently shaking, keeping her alert. "Answer me, Violet."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll concent-" The word hangs uncompleted. He lets it go.

"I want you to think. Think hard. Think and tell me what was the last song you heard on the radio." Thinking hurts. Thinking is a labour for her. While she's thus engaged, he steps back from the edge of the bed, picking her up with him. With her mind distracted the body automatically follows the guide. Her feet fall beneath her, unsteady at first, but as they follow him back toward the window they remember where the floor is, and what they're designed for.

Sherlock alternates stroking Violet's hair and the odd gentle tug. Whenever she flinches, that's helping her. One particular flinch and she mutters against him. He doesn't really hear, but he assumes it was the answer he was after. "Good. Now tell me the words. Don't sing, don't hum. Just the words." Making her mind work even harder, not just to remember but to take things out of their context. He turns and pushes her into the window-frame, guiding her head under the sash. It's like moving a sleepwalker. He worries about the ladder until she begins to mumble. The words still have their music, the odd rhythm of split-up syllables. But she's trying.

He lets go of her just long enough to bring down the sash again. He pushes the nails roughly into their loosened holes. If Rucastle discovers her disappearance, he wants it to stay a mystery as long as possible.

"Alright now, we need to climb down. I want you to go ahead of me, so that I can hold the ladder steady for you. Do you think you can do that?"

"I'm scared, Sherlock."

But not, he judges from the way she still clutches her arm, of heights. "Don't be. You're up and walking. That's the best sign. The rest happens tomorrow, don't think of it now."

He helps her over the edge, not letting go until she tells him she's steady, until she moves down one whole rung by herself. Then, as he kneels to hold the ladder top tight against the building, she says, "It's not in our blood."

For an awful moment, the words have riddle-meaning. Too much and too true and too close. Then he realizes; she's still following orders, just telling him the words of a song.


	18. Chapter 18

With the ladder hidden away, Sherlock sets about hiding Violet. "I need you," he tells her, "to stay out of the way. A couple of hours at most. If you see police arrive, go to them, tell them everything you know."

He had been guiding her, one arm wrapped across her back. Now Violet spins and grabs it, hard, fingernails biting into him. "Don't leave me. You can't just leave me." He had hoped she could be brave. But that would have been something she would have had to force, to concentrate on. The drug has taken that away from her. In her heart, Sherlock has no doubt, she wants to help him. But it makes her selfish. Worse, it makes her afraid. "What if you don't come back?"

"That's why the police would come."

"The police won't protect me. They won't believe me. It's a fucking policeman that'll get you if you just leave me here and then he'll come and get me!" She panics, her voice growing suddenly too loud so that Sherlock very briefly puts his hand to her mouth.

As slowly and clearly as he can, "I have to go back and get Alice. It's hard to say if she's in more or less danger now that you're free."

That stops her. Her head hangs and she begins to cry again. If only she could get back to that odd sleep from before, he could leave her in the trees, his coat around her. Temporarily, she'd be fine. But she's awake now. Thinking, even if the thoughts don't follow on from each other. "But you're _alone_," she keens. "Where's Doctor Watson?"

Where he ought to be. Where he should have been left in the first place. Where he should get used to and treat as its' own mystery and stay out of this.

"He's on his way," he lies to Violet. "Go down to the road. Stay over here, in the dark. Wait at the wall and tell him where to find me, if you see him coming." A task. Something to wait and watch for. It's easier for her to accept than simply being abandoned. "Please, Violet. I need your help." All lies. But the kind sort. He looks her in the eye and she begins to nod.

Violet turns, starting away behind the hedge, across the unruly hazels. Maybe she'll fall and knock herself senseless. He's rather have to pick her up from the ground later than from under a car if she wanders into the road. For now, he's done all he can. You have to balance these things, in the middle of a case. A night like this, with everything still to lose, you have to make uncomfortable decisions. He wants to take Violet away from her. Part of him wants to stay with her through the unfair withdrawal, a sickness she doesn't deserve this time, to thank her for everything else that she's done. The moment she won't see him if she looks over her shoulder, he turns and runs back to the house. Rucastle must be almost finished in the woods. This time he goes directly to the front door, with Alice's keys in his hand. It's a relief. He would have loved to have taken this approach in the first place, but that ran the risk of leaving a trail to the bedroom door, some clue that Violet was gone. He's hoping that won't be noticed.

Now he lets himself in. With his eyes on the living room, he sees that sideboard standing. The drawer hangs open. Sherlock doesn't bother going in; it'll be empty. The contents were undoubtedly in the canvas bag over Rucastle's shoulder. That, and probably bottled water, some basic food… Sherlock puts that from his mind. Right now he needs only somewhere to hide himself.

Beneath the stairs there is a slatted wooden door. Sherlock checks inside, finding only a hoover, a box of lightbulbs, a toolbox. The little extra things that make a house. While he knows he's still alone, he kneels to check amongst the tools. The crowbar is still in his hand and, though he likes having the length of it, a bit of distance between himself and any enemy, it was beginning to bend as he fought with the nails. He doesn't trust the flaking orange of it anymore, and sets it down amongst the rest. He exchanges it for a claw-hammer, gleaming nickel-bright, looking virtually unused. He can only hope he won't need it.

The awful prospect that he might occupies him, until he hears the back door opening, and shuts himself swiftly into the cupboard.

Carlo has settled into growling. The sound disappears as the door is shut on him. Rucastle is whistling to himself. There are the clicks of the shotgun being emptied, and put carefully away. The thud of boots pulled off and left in the back hall.

Sherlock watches between the slat. Lights come on and show him Rucastle, still with his coat on carrying the canvas bag down the hall. A plastic food container, empty now, rattles with some water bottles as he takes other things out. The thick paper first, lining the bottom of the drawer. The heavy pen to weight it down. The blue plait, he handles carefully, almost regretfully, coiling it around on itself, tucking in the tied end.

These things done, he closes the drawer and shrugs off his coat. Sherlock thinks nothing of it until he sees him come out through that doorway again, holding it at the neck as if to be hung. He holds his breath, and readjusts his grip on the hammer.

Rucastle turns left and, by the sound of things, hangs the coat on the newel post. Still whistling, his feet count out the stairs over Sherlock's head.

When Rucastle is two flights away, Sherlock eases open the cupboard door and steps out. He goes to that drawer. With the same care and attention, he removes the hair. Soft, ticklish at the frayed end. He wastes one precious moment holding that end tight, looking at the pattern of the cut. He imagines it pulled taut, held out at right angles from Alice's head, then being pulled down onto a sharp knife underneath. He knows the sound it would have made. He pockets it before he can dream of the sound that Alice might have made.

The paper in the bottom, he tears to shreds, barely even caring if he's heard, leaving the pieces scattered in the open drawer, on the sideboard, on the floor. It's more than the awful document deserves and anyway, there'll be plenty to hear soon enough.

Sherlock is off to meet Carlo again.

More than once, his gait falters on the way to the garden. Maybe there's meat in the kitchen, something to use if things don't work. Maybe he should go back and get that crowbar. Rusty or not, it's a foot and a half of space he could use. But then he'll shake out his shoulders and force himself on. There isn't time. Effectively hiding his fear will be the most important part. Rather than be scared of the enormous brute, Sherlock hates it. Why shouldn't he? It almost had his arm off. It could have killed him. It's infected and foul, it is terrorizing Alice, it has prevented him from saving both the young women long before now. Yes, he hates the beast, and goes to his task with hate.

Carlo is chained to his stake again. Curled up, gnawing at something Sherlock can't see. Looking relatively placid, for once. Well, that won't do.

Sherlock shuffles in his pocket until a coin falls into his hand. He draws back and with lethal accuracy pitches the glittering disc to where it bounces back, right between the dog's ears. Carlo is on his feet and growling in a millisecond, but can't see what hit him. Sherlock uses the distraction of another coin, fired at the hind legs, to get closer. While Carlo is doubled back at his own tail, Sherlock places Alice's braid on the grass. Still and lifeless, but well within the reach of the chain. The slightest whistle and Carlo turns to it.

The growling deepens. This is a nasty bit of training; even the attack on itself is forgotten. The hatred of the blue hair overrules everything else. But usually the plait is being shaken at him. Carlo is disturbed to see it just lying. He pads close and closer, sniffing, finding that it really is the same one. Paws at it to make sure it really is dead and not just pretending.

Then with vice-like jaws hung all over with saliva, Carlo falls to mauling the long-sought prey.

This won't last. As soon as the dog figures out there's no warm, living flesh to be had from it, it will lose interest. It's now that Sherlock steals around behind and removes the pin in the chain. Carlo's leash lies useless on the lawn. And, when the time comes that the braid holds no mystery for him, and Carlo attempts instead to take off after the real thing, there is nothing to hold him back.

The dog bolts into the darkness and there are only seconds to keep up. In the first of them, Sherlock is very aware that a light comes on three floors over his head, and that he is seen.

It doesn't matter anymore. The job's done. Alice is found.

As fast as his tormented system will let him, he follows, as much staying ahead of Rucastle as keeping behind Carlo. The length of the chain rattles in the air, lashes at the trees. Only when that noise settles and stops does he know he's close, and follows the growling.

Tonight, he has no torch. It appears to him that Carlo is menacing nothing but the blackened hollow of a tree that lightning got the better of.

He dares to walk closer.

All around his shoes, red, coppery leaf mulch. But it's the wrong time of year for it. It's been dry for weeks. These leafs aren't decomposing. They've been walked down, mashed under heavy boots two or perhaps three times a day. From somewhere beyond the clearing, a breeze brings him a sickening waft of a sewerish smell. Waste. Buckets being emptied.

Carlo's paws scrabble at the ground, so intent that Sherlock feels more than safe enough to walk up behind him. The ground beneath his feet starts to feel different. Under the leaves, under a thin scattering of earth, is a single hard surface, and beneath that is hollow.

Under it all, echoing up, frustrated screaming, individual words muffled out of recognition, the desperate cries of one trapped.

Sherlock no longer cares that Rucastle must be close. That he knows where he's going and is better prepared. He doesn't care. He falls forward and clears the ground in front of his knees, finding that it isn't ground at all but a sheet of old, dented metal. It bellies and rings like a drum skin when he beats it and calls out, "Alice!"

The screaming stops. His is a new voice. She doesn't know what to do, and for maybe ten seconds is perfectly silent. But in that time she positions herself beneath him. He feels the very tips of her fingers just brushing the other side of the sheet. Then, with all the breath and all the life that she still has, come the only words that make any sense; "Help me! Get me out of here! Get rid of that bloody dog and help me!"

Where Carlo is concentrated must be where the trapdoor is. Open it now and the dog will dive mindlessly through, and Alice's prison will turn into her grave.

The end of the chain is very close. With a good wrap around his right arm, Sherlock could probably pull the creature away. Provided Carlo stays focussed and doesn't turn on him, there must be somewhere, somehow, he could tether it. He's still got that hammer, after all.

Turning the tool in his hand, Sherlock starts to think of something else. This animal is obviously no longer a pet. It's dangerous. It's a killing machine just waiting to get off the leash. If he'd reported his own mauling when it happened, Carlo would have had himself a nice quiet injection by now. It would be easier, safer, and it is no more than the law will do first thing tomorrow morning. As he planned, he grabs the chain, and winds the slack back over his elbow. Even in his weak left hand, the hammer ought to do the job. With a good swing, it ought to do the job, and Sherlock doesn't honestly give a damn if his arm snaps in two with the effort of it.

With no little difficulty, he raises up his arm

A shotgun is cocked with a rattling clack behind him. Ever so soft, ever so nasty, Jethro Rucastle hisses, "Why don't you put that down now, son?"


	19. Chapter 19

Gentle as a lover, the shotgun nuzzles the back of Sherlock's neck. Very slowly, he lowers his arm. Holding it out to his side, he drops the hammer on soft earth; the rattle of it on the roof of Alice's prison might be too much for all of them.

_Alice_. He could be shot now. What would that sheet of metal do to the sound of his falling body?

"Righto," says Rucastle, with taunting good humour. "Now that's done. Now get turned round."

Sherlock tries for the same determined brightness. Through his tight-jawed grimace, it's really not coming across. "Not sure how I feel about turning my back on your dog."

"Carlo! Heel!"

Nothing. Maybe a momentary muting of the snarl, but no real effect. "A valiant effort," Sherlock says over the noise, "But I'm afraid Carlo is in quite the frenzy. And having seen what he did to that hair, _well_…", and he gives a long low whistle of disbelief. The growing rage behind him is like heat, beating the air between them. How dare he? That braid, that sacred relic of his beautiful daughter, that memorial lock, and now it's destroyed. There's a press, just a kiss, from the shotgun barrel. Sherlock's eyes shut, breath catching. But he holds his nerve. He has to. Beneath his feet, Alice is pacing back and forth. He can sense her. Terrified, a hand wound in her hair… "Don't get me wrong," he says, "I understand why you have him that way. A coward _ought_ to have a vicious dog. Takes some of the pressure off you, I suppose."

"Turn around!" Rucastle roars. He dives past, grabbing one-handed for Carlo's chain. The end of the shotgun drops. Sherlock spins on his heel, and with his forearm forces the barrel to the side. Rucastle seizes. His trigger finger tightens with the rest of him.

The shot opens the night, deafening them both. The barrel bucks wild with no one to hold it, jerking bruise-hard against Sherlock's arm. He falls backward. The only thing he's really aware of, after that initial millisecond, is that Alice is screaming beneath them. Gradually, he comes to understand that Rucastle is in equally deep distress. It doesn't bother him so much to think of the whole impact of the recoil slamming into the older man's shoulder, tearing muscle and ligament like paper, and _maybe_ shattering something – though he doesn't dare to hope.

Carlo's chain is wrapped, caught, at Rucastle's elbow. He just barely has the strength to keep hold of the enraged animal, who barks at nothing, trying to frighten off the echo of the gunshot.

"I love your plan," Sherlock tells him, in fast, harsh bites across ground level. "Very clever. I'm sure Alice is really coming round to your way of thinking. I'm sure the two of you will move on from here and live happily ever _bloody_ after, and she'll never dream of leaving you again."

"You know nothing. You might fool them young lads down at the yard don't want to do no work of their own, but not me. You're scum. Us that's here now are both aware of that. And about me and my daughter and what happens in a family, you know _nothing_." Rucastle means every word of that. He enjoys saying it. He thinks he's right. Nonetheless, that's just a ruse. If he keeps talking, if he holds eye contact, he thinks Sherlock won't notice his hand feeling about in the grass, looking for the hammer.

Sherlock gets his good arm beneath him, trying to be the first one on his feet. It won't help him if Carlo knocks him straight back down again, but it would be something.

"You're injured," he tries to explain. "You're injured and I know everything. Give up."

"That's no way to talk to a man on his own property."

"If this _was_ your property, I might think twice. The days when you had the power and authority to even _possibly_ get away with something like this are very much over. The real, current police are already on their way."

"You're bluffing."

"No, actually. It's one of those thigns that happens in families, or at least it does in mine; one brother walks into peril and isn't heard from, and the other sends the police. Maybe it's just because I'm scum. I've always thought it was a warm, familial sort of thing to do. Could be wrong."

"Call it off."

"I suppose I _could_ get in touch with him. Phone's dead, though."

Rucastle uses reaching to his pocket as an excuse to drag the hammer closer. The hammer's nothing to worry about. The damage to his shoulder will keep him from using it to any effect. But Sherlock hates him having it. Rucastle pulls out his mobile and sends it skimming across the metal. "Call it off. Nothing funny, now. I can feel this chain slipping out of my hand."

"Not a problem. I just wouldn't want him to worry about me." Under the pretence of casting about for signal, Sherlock takes his opportunity to get back to his feet. Rucastle is doing the same, using the tug of Carlo against the leash to pull him forward. "This is decent of you," Sherlock continues. "Just while it's ringing, one question. Why drug Violet? She couldn't get out, no one would have heard her scream from all the way up here. Why do that to her?"

"You look me in the eye and tell me I didn't give her everything she was wanting."

That's all he needs to know. There's a faint pop, and Mycroft picks up down a crackling, distant line. "Hello?"

"Mycroft, _hi_. Just that call. All's well here, all done, tied up. On my way back to hospital as we speak."

"Sherlock, what on _earth_'s happened?"

Pretending to laugh, "Well, yes. Okay, bye then. Talk soon." It's barely eleven o'clock. Mycroft knows now that something has gone very, very wrong at this end. The police weren't on their way already, but they are now. Now there's one question; can Sherlock hold Rucastle off long enough to be found in the woods off a dark country road?

He can see it already, all over Rucastle's face. He thinks no one is looking for Sherlock anymore. He thinks he has time, and cover, and everything except for the resolve.

"Many thanks," Sherlock says, and tosses the phone back. It glances uselessly off Rucastle's fist, wrapped tightly around the hammer. "You know you can't use that. More to the point, you _won't_. Let's face it, if you had it in you to kill, I'd be dead. How long have you been keeping your daughter in a… what? Bomb shelter?"

Maybe the chain really does slip. Maybe Rucastle tries to scare him. One way or the other, Carlo leaps, and Sherlock comes to terms with the fact that he's been scented now. The dog had nothing to focus on, and thus has latched onto something it's fought before.

Still. No turning back now, is there?

"Think about it. You can't honestly think you couldn't have _forced_ her to do what you want. In all this time? A man who had murder in him wouldn't have given her all these opportunities to refuse. You've _let_ her hold out. Afraid of _her_ even-"

"You don't say another _word_ about my Alice!"

"I'd rather come up against Alice any day. She'd make a much better crook than you."

The words are barely into the air when Rucastle snaps. Whether he can manage it or not goes out of his head, and he tries to throw the hammer. Perhaps as a result of his rage, there _is_ some power in the toss. Some. It would just bound off Sherlock.

Thing is, the hammer doesn't make it that far. Mid-arc, it meets with the back of Carlo's head.

Jaws snapping, the slavering beast turns back on itself. "Down, lad," Rucastle tries to tell it, but it's a bit late for that now. "Down!" Carlo's paws have become tangled in the chain. He's trapping himself, closer and closer to the master who just attacked him. Very little makes sense, when one is thinking in the context of a rabid animal. This, however, this makes sense, and not hard to see where it's going.

There's really very little Sherlock can do. The hammer is trapped between them. The chain binds them together. "Steady, lad!" isn't working.

The cry from Rucastle when the jaws clamp shut on his defending arm is brutal and familiar. His own arm twinges. Sherlock places his hand delicately over the bulge of the dressing under his sleeve. Thoughtful. Carlo is tugging, flinging his head side to side, and Rucastle along with it. "Holmes!" the old man bellows. "Fucking help me, you hopeless prick! Don't just stand there." Those are all the words he can form and string together and end. The rest is just noise.

Alice isn't screaming. Sherlock notices that much. It doesn't feel like she's running around or terrified or cowering. Of course, he can't say much – he can't see her and she's not telling him how she feels. But Sherlock has the distinct impression that Alice, too, is just waiting patiently for this part to be over.

He is momentarily aware of something moving in the forest. It means nothing to him, and his eyes stay quietly on the lethal attack.

Then a crack – another shot lashes the night. Sherlock almost dives for cover, believing the shotgun might have been discharged again with the force of the fight.

Carlo flops limply sideways from his bleeding master.

Sherlock looks to the source of the noise and recoils, "_John_…" Then it strikes him and he relaxes, "Ah. Mycroft spoke to you."

"No." John is tucking away the old handgun, crossing directly and swiftly to Rucastle's side. "Lestrade did. Lestrade was very confused. So was I, actually; I only went to the coffee machine. Been trying to catch up with you since. Violet told me you were in the woods." That's all the conversation he has time for. By then he is kneeling by what must appear to him to be a victim; he studies Rucastle's wounds as best he can, checking him over for the signs of shock. "Sherlock, help me."

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, no." He's got someone else to help. He moves slowly can carefully across the metal sheet, until he feels a hinge under his foot. From there, it's only a matter of feeling around for a handle. The trapdoor has only a very basic bolt on it. What could Alice do, from inside and far below? A basic bolt was all that was needed. He shoots it back and drags open the trapdoor.

Alice is waiting beneath him. She's thin and filthy. The cellar below is lit only by a single lantern that shows up the hollows of her eyes and cheekbones, catches on the inch of blonde root above the blue hair. Her face is tearstained, voice hoarse. Still, she looks brazenly up, tips her head at him, "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes."

She stops to pass him the lantern first. He moves it as close as he can to John without actually leaving her sight. He wants her to know that he's there.

With his left arm braced along the edge of the hole, he holds the right down to her. Alice grabs it, and well; her forearm wrapped against his, grip wiry and strong. She jumps to help him lift her, and the moment she can she reaches out and starts to pull herself up. There's no hurry, no desperation. She's determined. Nothing more or less impressive than that. Somehow, Sherlock isn't even surprised.

John glances up as she emerges, picking herself up as much as she allows Sherlock to help. He breathes out, "Violet."

Alice is only confused. Sherlock is helping her past her fallen father. She doesn't much seem to care about him. "Guess again," he mutters.

Rucastle is moaning. Begins to call out, "Alice… Alice, love, c'mere to me, girl. Alice!" She straightens her back. Would rather weakly stagger than lean on Sherlock at all. Doesn't so much as twitch in the old man's direction. "You ungrateful little bitch! After everything I've-"

"Stop talking," John barks, suddenly loud. Rucastle falls into resentful silence. "There's an oath that means I have to treat you. But I don't _yet_ have to treat you for a broken jaw. Do you understand?"

Small and blithe, just the beginning of a smile ghosts Sherlock's face.

He goes with Alice toward the house. As they approach the back door, the electric blue lights of police cars are flashing at the gate.


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock meets the police coming. Alice, from a step behind him, steals away, silently disappearing into the house. He tells them where to find Rucastle, and grudgingly that an ambulance will be required. Then he goes inside to wait for her. As best he can, in a strange kitchen, he makes tea.

All of this is probably most irregular. She's the victim in a major crime. Doubtlessly suffering massive psychological trauma, not to mention the physical effects of being kept that way. She ought to be closely monitored and cosseted and protected. But something tells him Alice has had quite enough of that lately. And considering her prison, and listening to the hot water hiss in the walls, he can't begrudge her a shower.

She appears when the ambulance siren is crying outside, and hangs in the door jamb, looking out the window. Mumbles, "Oh. Doctor Watson wasn't enough, then?"

"It was a rather serious attack."

Alice nods. "Yeah, it sounded serious." Alice, for her part, doesn't sound exactly upset about that. "Surprised they got here so quickly." Surprised and disappointed. From long restriction, she is stiff and doll-like. But the quiet self-possession is all her own. She goes wordlessly to the mug of tea on the table, tastes it and pulls a face. While she goes about the processes of watering it down, adding milk and sugar, moving easily around the kitchen, she says, "Someone's been sleeping in my bed." That's one way of putting it. It's an explanation that she's owed. She could tell Sherlock her story and he could fill in the blanks. He's about to ask her to begin. Then, with the most pain he's heard from her, she breaks before he can say a word. "Where's Jamie?"

"At the police station in the next village. He fought for you. No one could believe him, though."

"But he's alright. Dad kept telling me he wasn't. Couple of times that he was in hospital, couple of times that he was dead. Once that he'd hung himself. So he's alright?"

"I spoke to him just a couple of hours ago."

She nods wisely, perching on the edge of the worktop. "I knew he was. Dad talks bollocks. Kept telling me he was going to cut my tongue out. Jesus, he cut my _hair_ and cried for an hour and he was going to cut my tongue out." She even laughs. He's not entirely sure how. Come the morning, maybe she'll break down in tears and that'll make more sense. Tonight, he can take advantage of what might be shock. Get the details out of her. He tries to phrase his first question. She says, "I suppose you want to know how it all happened?" Sherlock pulls a chair out from the table, starting to lower himself into it. "Oh, yeah, go ahead there."

"…Do you mind?"

Alice blinks. Shakes the grimace off her face. "No. Of course not." Then, all the explanation he really needs, "This is _my_ house. Mine. Not just my family's, not just that I live here, it's mine. My mum left it to me. And not only did he take me out of it – Dad, I mean – but he would show up twice a day, sometimes three times, with that dog and that gun. And quite apart from bringing food and emptying _fucking_ bucket, he brought the paperwork for me to sign it away. He wanted to move away from here and move me with him. But he couldn't sell the house without my say-so. He kept bringing the deeds. I spat on a load of them, but I think he was just printing them off from somewhere."

Sherlock nods, assimilating that. He'd suspected as much. Those were the papers he'd found in the sideboard. The rest falls into place around it. At first, Rucastle only wanted Jamie Fowler to go away. Hence Alice's disappearance, and later Violet was put in that front window to ignore the boy, to make him believe that Alice no longer had any interest. But it didn't work. That's when things became more dangerous, when Rucastle decided he would have to move away from here. That's when Alice would have had to sign, and when Violet suddenly found herself in peril.

As best he can, Sherlock tries to reassure her "You've been exceptionally brave."

"Nah. Long as he never let go of Carlo I was never in danger. I just didn't know if it was ever going to be over or if I was going to go mad first. Then, whenever it got worse lately, I knew there had to be someone like you around. Just had to hope it was somebody good." The back door opens. Alice leans carefully around the fridge, "Hello, Doctor Watson." Her apparent good cheer worries John a lot more than it worried Sherlock. His brow furrows. Alice, though, seems not to notice. Passing the fridge again gives her the idea to look inside it. Pulling out a KitKat, "You patched the bastard up then? Sorry, what's the proper word… _stabilized_ the bastard."

Cagy, John responds in the best way he knows how. "The paramedics seem to be pretty hopeful."

"More's the pity. If anybody's talking to him, he's never welcome in my house again. Certainly I never want to lay eyes again, so somebody will need to ferry that message. I suppose I'll need a lawyer, won't I? If he doesn't get infected and die…"

John and Sherlock exchange a glance. John quickly and carefully hides his filthy, bloodied hands until he can cross to the sink. Alice, now, is simply staring. "Your coat," John mutters. "Give her your coat." Without thinking or questioning, Sherlock does it. He tries to put it around her shoulders, but Alice flinches so violently he pulls away. But she snatches the coat from him and puts it around her shoulders. While her gaze is on Sherlock, John is starting to clean the mess from his hands and wrists. He asks, "How are you feeling, Alice?"

"I'm fine. I'm out and I'm clean for the first time in weeks. I'm totally fine, Doctor." She takes half a breath, remembers something else she wants to say, "You know I read your blog? 'Course I do," she nods at Sherlock, "Dad hates you, so of course I do. _Electric-_underslash-_blue-four-nine_, that's me in the comments."

John forces a smile, "You _are_ a fan. Or were you just pretending to be nice to annoy your father?"

"Bit of both."

"The police want to talk to you, Alice. Should I tell them you're up here?"

She shrugs. "You can if you want. I'm not going anywhere. This is my house. That's what I was just telling Sherlock. It's mine, I own it. I'm not leaving anymore."

Shock and trauma. She'll have to go to hospital, of course. To be tested for illness and infection if nothing else, and probably for a psychological evaluation.

For reasons which are perfectly clear to him now, but which will later fade into mystery, Sherlock can imagine quite clearly the next time he meets Jamie Fowler. Later he won't remember why it's so important to him, but he wants to put the fear of God into that boy. If he doesn't keep it together, if any ridiculous petty neurosis of his gets in the way of Alice's getting better, Sherlock will personally see to it that he spends every miserable the rest of his pitiful little life in a cell like the one he's spent the last couple of days in.

Here, in _Alice_ Rucastle's kitchen, that makes perfect sense to him.


	21. Chapter 21

Dawn is lifting its head before things settle down again. Rucastle, they've heard, is in intensive care. The dog's body has been removed from the property. Alice was less than amused by this. Alice, it seems, had her own plans for Carlo. The more she spoke, the longer she sat there, the clearer it became that it's going to take a lot of work to bring her back to the world. She claimed, for instance, that as it was her property and Carlo was a family pet, she ought to have certain rights and say-so over what was done with the corpse. She wanted it left to rot, she said, in the bunker that had held her, and only once the mutt was thoroughly putrefied was the hole to be filled in with concrete. She's had a lot of time to think about these things.

Sherlock won't begin to relate the things he heard her mutter about her father. He's pretending he never heard them at all. That way, if she acts on any of them, he never heard her talking and has no reason to suspect her and no evidence to give.

About an hour ago, two quietly respectful police came to the back door. Not like the city at all. They waited there, even when Alice ignored them.

"I think you should speak to them," John tried. She'd been asking him the details of cases, blithely and hungrily pursuing the goriest of details. He hadn't been comfortable for a long time.

But she wouldn't bite, take the distraction, "Why? They saw what's down there. They know what happened to me. Sherlock can explain. He knows it all. Can't you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock knew what to say. Exactly what would move her, get the job done. It stuck in his throat a little. Until it was out, he didn't know why. He said, "Do you want your father to go to prison?"

Alice nodded gravely. "Forever."

"Then let the police in and tell them everything."

It was cruel. That was made him hang low in his chair, that was why he couldn't meet her eye when he waved her limply toward the back door. John had been doing all that hard work, trying to keep her in the moment. He asked her about physical factors, about heat and cold and pins and needles, about tinnitus and nausea and headache, just to make her remember that she's real. And there he was, sending her right back.

But it did the trick. Alice got up, and went to the door with her head high and her shoulders back like a queen. She brought the officers in and brought them to the living room and there they've been ever since.

John knew it was cruel. He responded with a cruelty of his own. "You were going to stand and watch that man be attacked."

"I had no way of getting between them."

"The dog would have killed him."

"Yes."

"You know that's not really what Alice wants. She's been traumatised. They're fantasies, to help her cope. She doesn't really want to see him mauled to death." Well, Sherlock could have questioned that. Or he could have asked who mentioned what Alice wants in the first place? He'd thought they were talking about him.

The whole hour between has gone by in utter silence, except for the mumble of voices from the next room. Someone asks the wrong question, and Alice shouts an indistinct answer. After that, the quiet isn't quite the same.

"There ought to be a psychiatrist in there with her," John mutters.

"It's just a statement."

"That lantern she had, Sherlock, the only light down there. It winds up. It's not batteries or electric or anything, you have to wind it."

"Ah. The enhanced muscle definition on her right arm. Didn't like to guess what that was about."

"Oh, come on…" Sherlock shrugs. John is glaring. He's going to get told off now. He's too tired to figure out why and the ache is returning to his arm, strengthening throb by throb. He'll just wait. Ride it out. Hopefully it won't take too long. "I'm sorry."

"Hm, right. Yes, f…" This is not a bollocking. "Sorry, _what_?"

"That's where she was. She was in the dark already when we got here, wasn't she? And I didn't believe you. I didn't, Sherlock. I thought Violet had gotten to you. Whatever that means… Because you knew her or because of _how_ you knew her and… And I couldn't just believe that she was clean. I'm sorry I doubted you and I don't know why I did."

"Violet's not clean. Not entirely. That first time we saw her I'm not sure she even knew it. I've got the feeling Rucastle's been keeping her quiet and compliant virtually since she arrived. Then, tonight, well… that was a panic dose. He could have killed her. How was she when you saw her?"

A nice, elegant change of subject, no? He's quite proud of that one.

But John's starting to get that furrowed look around the eyes. "She just met me on the road, I didn't stop. Why? What h-?"

He finishes what he's saying, but it's drowned in the scream from the living room. Both at once, they run to help.

Alice had been perched again, this time on the sideboard. She fell from there when she screamed, and is bundled now on the floor with one arm outstretched, pointing at something unseen outside the window. The police are following her line of sight and one of them swears.

Sherlock doesn't need to look. He leaves Alice in John's hands and goes to the front lawn.

Violet isn't screaming, and she didn't fall. But she can't move from the place where she was spotted. She is visibly trembling, swaying. He goes as close to her as he dares, quietly reminding her of her name. About a minute after he speaks she hears his voice and grabs out hard for his arm. "Sherlock. Sherlock, what did he give me? Sherlock, I was inside. I looked inside and I saw myself inside, but I'm out here. I'm freaking out. It's whatever he gave me, I'm freaking out." Quite suddenly, quite before he's ready for it she spins and flings both arms around him, hiding her face against his chest. His arms hang stiff by his side for just a few seconds before he enfolds her.

"You're fine," he whispers. "You're not freaking out. I'm sorry you've been alone all night. I thought the ambulance would have helped you. You're not freaking out."

"But I'm inside. And out here. But I'm inside."

"No. No, that girl inside is Alice. Her hair's growing out, she's thinner and paler than you, and she doesn't have this freckle-" He touches it so she'll know the one he means, "-behind her ear. You're not freaking out. Coming down, yes, but nothing nastier than that."

Her shaking slows, and finally ceases. He slowly lets go of her. Another minute, and she takes the hint. "What am I going to do?" she asks him. "I gave up my place in the city, and I didn't get paid, and I d-"

"Shh. Don't think about that now." Over her shoulder, he watches the front door swing. One of the officers comes out, followed by Alice with the other. "Look. I think you helped. Alice was refusing to leave the house until now."

"I don't want to look."

"You don't have to." Behind the rest of the pack, John follows with his coat. "Stand right there, don't turn round. I'll come straight back to you." He hurries to meet John halfway, muttering, "She's still a little dazed. Be kind."

With cool appraisal, "Check _you_ out. Mr _Compassion_, all of a sudden."

Let him joke. Let him keep his sarcasm. Maybe another day, Sherlock will let him in on why.

He was here this time. No one had to die. He was here in time. Violet is alive. Alice is alive. Rucastle will be brought to justice. He was here. And he can't say that nobody got hurt, but nobody had to die. It's more than he dares to hope for, on a normal day. So let John keep his good humour, and Sherlock will keep his. Just this once, he'll keep his.


	22. Chapter 22

A month has gone by since Bishop's Breach. Behind the heavy curtains at Baker Street, the heat is merciless. It's been three days since Sherlock set eyes on Violet Hunter but only because he's been engaged with a rather fascinating experiment on the effects of stifling heat and humidity on the decay of dead flesh, which has possible ramifications for all of currently beleaguered summer murder investigations, and… And all of this is lies. It's been three days since he's seen Violet, yes, but the experiment is not the reason. Nor is it fascinating. The only possible ramifications are for his website, his neighbours, and environmental health. And the only benefit he's seeing _so far_ is that Mrs Hudson will come no further than the stairway door when she just – pops – up.

She knocks and he peels himself gradually from his careful watch post, horizontal on the sofa. Her nose wrinkles when he opens the door, but beyond that she covers her feelings well. And look, she's brought the tray.

Thirty degrees or more outside, but there's always a place in life for tea.

She looks at him with sympathy and the infinite understanding that characterises the eyes of Hindu idols. "Going a bit mad again?" He takes the tray from her, a little more sharply than he really meant to. "Would you believe? Young Violet tried to tell me you must be on a case. Her, telling _me_. As though I wouldn't know."

"Well I hope you put her in her place."

Mrs Hudson bristles, puffs up, "I most certainly d-" She sees the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Sherlock, she'd fooled me once already. I saw her come in with that wig and I thought the two of you were up to something. _Case-wise_, I mean."

"Wig?"

Now she primps. That coquettish little nod, the nasal hum that goes with it, is a leftover from when she was younger. Not for the first time, Sherlock imagines how she might have been back then, and shudders; imagine finding himself pitted against _that_, as a witness, as a suspect… Doesn't bear thinking about. Now, however, it's just a leftover, just a little nod which is trying not to gloat too much in the fact that she knows something he doesn't. "Long, blonde one," she says, in clipped syllables that can barely contain her righteous joy. "Brought it home last night."

"Is she still here?" Sherlock hands Mrs Hudson back the tray and goes to investigate the first worthwhile mystery in weeks, down in the basement flat. Flat C has been sparsely furnished with what could be spared and borrowed from the upstairs rooms. Still, even mismatched and bare, it feels somehow familiar. Close.

Violet is standing at the full-length mirror, propped in an odd corner of the living room, bent forward to try and make a cheap wig sit nicely. "Not exactly the _usual_ method for wearing one of those."

"Then, for God's sake, Sherlock, help me."

Every time he hears her voice steady and bright, he remembers how she sounded that night and is oddly thankful for it. Sherlock takes the wig from her, hangs it on his hand so it falls down straight, and gives it to her to hold the same way. Her own hair beneath, now a faded, teal shade of blue, is haphazardly pinned down. He sighs and starts to pull the pins out. "Tell me why, first?"

"I'm going to visit Alice. Jamie's got a job interview so I said I'd sit with her this afternoon." Then, because he doesn't ask, she tells him anyway, "She's doing really well. Couple of weeks, with medication and knowing she's got people round her, they'll probably let her go. But she still gets anxious about me with the blue hair. She'll start apologizing and stammering and… So I thought this was the quickest way to cover it up. Only it won't bloody sit!"

"It would if you had _any_ technique at all."

"Oh, and you do? Where did you come across your technique, then? Go on, then, tell me."

"One has to learn all sorts of things in my line of work…"

"You do my face too, before I go for the train? You know I'll miss this, having all these personal services right at my door."

He demands her brush like a surgeon and has it clapped into his hand. Then, through a mouthful of pins, "You're in no hurry to move out of here. There's never been a tenant for this flat. Not to mention the joy to be had watching Mrs Hudson cope with competition."

"No," Violet says sternly. "No, I am in a hurry. And I'll pay you back for everything. Don't shake your head at me, Sherlock. And don't give me none of that Chinese bollocks about getting responsible for someone when you save their life. You've never done it for anyone else." That's not _quite_ true. And, in addition, he's never saved anyone's life on three separate occasions. There must be some sort of build-up effect. "Anyway, did I tell you? I found a job. Just waitressing, but I'm more than grateful."

"Locally?"

"Why? Are you going to keep an eye on me, Mr Holmes?"

Yes. But she need never know that and need never see him again unless she needs him. "Merely a polite question, Miss Hunter."

"Yeah, right. But it is close, yeah. Not that far from the Tube. A little Italian place, y'know, candles in wine bottles and checked tablecloths, all that stuff. The owner's nice, Angelo… Do you know it?"

He shakes his head. "Don't get much chance to eat out."

"You should come by sometime, then. I'll throw in the garlic br… Sherlock, are you French-pleating the back of my hair?"

He reaches forward and pushes her head around to centre. "Eyes front, please, Violet." He is _trying_ to work. Pin by pin, he tucks each strand away flat against her scalp. Feeling more questions swell against her ribs, feeling her lips part to ask them, he cuts her off, "What about Rucastle's trial?"

"Might not happen. They're saying he might just plead guilty now and let us all get on with it." A guilty plea could mean a reduced sentence. And given the extent of Rucastle's injuries, the probable long-term disability, it's not going to be the long, hard time they were all imagining. Really, it's been a long time since Sherlock cared what happened to the criminal after the case was solved. Exposing them, toppling the plan, that's usually enough for him. This one, however, makes him that little bit angry. Leaning behind her, Violet can't see his face. But she must sense something. In the kindest, gentlest sort of a voice, "It's probably best for Alice, if she doesn't have to relive it all."

"There's that."

"Try and sound like you believe it, would you?" He takes the wig back from her, stretching the cheap woven cap. It's not perfect, but it never will be. There are far fewer conspicuous lumps now. Violet begins to thank him, to step away, but he holds her down by the shoulders, hushes her. Not finished yet. Struggling a little with the long, slightly plasticky hair, he splits it into three and throws one over the other in a loose braid. "Oh," she smiles, handing him a band to tie it off. "I get it. I'm going to leave here the way I arrived. Yeah, very clever."

"If not plaited or otherwise tied, these strands will build up static, break off, and end up everywhere. I am sparing you the madness-inducing mutterings of Mrs Hudson. Nothing more than that."

"I believe you," Violet laughs. She _can_ laugh. A month gone by and she can laugh, and do so many greater things than this. She'll live. Looking at the places she's brought herself back from, that's incredible. That's more than enough. She doesn't even know it. She's only laughing at him, "Thousands wouldn't, but I do. Don't worry. I won't tell anyone you're all heart."

"You wouldn't dare. Not if you want that new job of yours anyway; Angelo _despises_ liars."

"_Aha_!"

"…Get out. You'll miss the train."

"Bit careless there, detective!"

"Get. Out."

He follows her from the flat, waits while she locks the door and follows her again up to the street. The sunlight is blinding and uncomfortable, but only for a moment. He lingers a while in the warmth of it, until he senses someone next to him. Looking around, he finds Mrs Hudson holding out that cup of tea again, and holding one herself. "Watching her safely to the corner, are we?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"You think I don't hear you jump to the window every time the front door shuts." He can ignore that one. He can stand quietly and watch the latest casualties of the heat-wave roll their barely-clothed, painfully-puce bodies along the street. "You were always the youngest, weren't you?" Mrs Hudson muses. "What's it like being someone's big brother, then?" She is mildly, warmly smiling.

Sherlock looks down into his tea, mutters about getting back to his work, and goes back inside.

* * *

[A/N - So that's a wrap, kids! Must say, I'm sorry to say goodbye to this one, I've had fun. After all, this is the first real, full case I've written. And all those _good guys_ – my head doesn't know _where_ I'm at. So c'mon, folks, let me know – should I just go back to the dark side and stick with my beloved Wild Irish? Or did I do okay at this detective business? Please drop a line now that we've reached the end. What you liked, didn't like, it all helps for later.

Many thanks for riding with me anyhow,

Sal.]


End file.
